


Slacker

by padawanhilary, Telesilla



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Cross-Generation Relationship, Drugs, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Pre-Slash, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-12-10
Updated: 2003-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 22:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 69
Words: 48,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padawanhilary/pseuds/padawanhilary, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telesilla/pseuds/Telesilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slacker is the story of Jon, a middle-aged high school teacher and Ben, one of his students.   This work contains sex between an adult and a seventeen year old and descriptions of drug abuse, so if that sort of thing is an issue for you, please use your back button now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains sex between an adult and a seventeen year old and descriptions of drug abuse, so if that sort of thing is an issue for you, please use your back button now.
> 
> Originally each chapter was posted as a vignette, which is why they're all quite short.

He is a complete slacker. He's leaning on the outer wall of the boys' bathroom on the south end of the building, catching the last of fall's sunlight. He's smoking casually, as though someone weren't about to come around the corner of the building and snatch the cigarette right out of his hand, yelling at him to go to detention--again. He's in a ratty denim jacket covered with ink drawings, his own personal graffiti, tattoo designs, safety pins, zippers. Trent Reznor's signature graces the pocket just inside. The jacket never gets washed. It almost never gets taken off.

Under the jacket is an obscene t-shirt depicting two skeletons engaged in a questionably-positioned sex act. He'd get sent to detention for that, too, and frequently does. His pants are so dark olive that they're almost ebon, and they hang on him. The tops of his hipbones could likely be seen if only he would tug up the hem of the t-shirt. His shoulders are against the wall but they're all that's touching it; the rest of his body slumps outward, hips thrust provocatively forward. His legs are crossed. His Visions are covered in the same inkwork his jacket is; most of the drawing is done on the instep when he gets bored in physics or Algebra II.

He never, however, gets bored in World Economics. His pale green eyes have settled on Dr. Jon Quenton, a man far too educated to be teaching a core class in a bad high school. Dr. Quenton is leaning in his doorway in a pose as blatantly uncaring as that of his student. He is crisply dressed, his hair pulled into a low tail at his nape, his beard immaculately trimmed, his white shirt and khaki slacks pressed sharply. One leg is crossed before the other and his arms are folded over his chest as he regards his student, who never studies but manages to pull nineties and hundreds on every test he takes. Quenton should be the one snatching the cigarette away and sending the boy to detention, where they will replace the t-shirt yet again with something tame and unprovocative. He should demand more, explain that such potential in one so young and so very intelligent should never be wasted. He should admonish the boy to try harder, do more. He should, by all rights, be spouting the same nonsense the rest of the administration does. He should, but he does not.

He looks at the cant of slim hips and the huge, green eyes and can't bring himself to change anything about the illegal tableau in front of him.


	2. Chapter 2

Dr. Quenton cups the smooth, young face in his hands, feeling soft lips under his, lips so warm and sweet that he's been dying to kiss them for months. It's dangerous and taboo, this kiss, but made all the more scorching for that fact. Ben is leaning over his desk, hands planted firmly on it, giving as good as he gets, allowing his mouth to be ravished as he ravishes back, lips and tongue and teeth all engaged in slick, gorgeous play--

The fantasy breaks like glass as Ben shifts in his seat, causing the rubber on his sneakers to squeak on the utilitarian tile floor. The professor's assistant is hunched over the thick, red-and-black lettered teacher's edition of Global Economics, making red slashes on multiple-choice Scantron sheets because Dr. Quenton hates the Scantron machine.

Ben's hair is disheveled and his posture is bad. He has his ankles crossed under the chair, which is positioned at the front of Dr. Quenton's desk. The latest addition to his right instep is a stick-and-circles drawing of the molecular structure of Valium. His head is tipped down, his eyes partially obscured by a flop of red-brown hair. He's not reading the book, though; not by a long shot. He's leaning forward on his elbows, head tipped down, eyes looking up, watching.

Sighing, Dr. Quenton focuses his eyes and forces himself to read.


	3. Chapter 3

Ben is leaning so far over Dr. Quenton's chair that the professor can feel the heat from his body, even through all the denim. The boy has pointed out a place in the textbook--in the _textbook,_ for God's sake--that's _wrong._ The problem is that it took him a while to find it. The problem is that he flips through pages, biting his bottom lip, his red-gold hair flopping into his eyes in a way that's endearing and irritating and sexy at the same time. It makes Dr. Quenton want to reach up and push it out of the way, demanding somewhat petulantly, "Doesn't that bother you?" That, compounded with warm, teenaged body heat, the illicit smoky smell clinging to him (does he _have_ to smell just like that?) and the intent look in his eyes... that heated, intelligent look...

After a moment, the bitten lip gets released and Ben has straightened up, pointing at the found error in smug triumph. "There. DaiCorp wasn't changed over in 1983, it was in eighty-_two_. Najato Takaichirou established them from the merger between Yohachi Industries and Daisun, Incorporated in January and was a victim of a hostile takeover in November; everything changed at the executive level but only the Japanese media ran it. Basically they disowned that first year--but the textbook shouldn't let that slide by. You can't cover the history of a major international corporation and leave that stuff out." He sounds faintly disgusted.

"How is it you know so much about DaiCorp," Jon asks, voice surprisingly steady considering the duress he's under, "when you can't seem to find your upper level algebra class?"

Ben makes a soft huffing noise and looks at the professor steadily. His voice is flat and all-knowing. "Because Mr. Everett doesn't have a subsidiary corporation that produces hentai."

"Fair enough," Jon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, conceding because he has, quite simply, no argument for this. He tugs open a desk drawer and reaches far into the back, into a file folder labeled "Defunct." The form he produces is intended to be submitted to the publishers of said incorrect textbook.

"Fill that out. Correct what you think needs correcting, and I'll submit it. Doesn't guarantee anything--in fact, it's probably a waste of time--but there you go." He hands the form to Ben, who looks at it, narrow-eyed, before taking it. Jon's assiduously trying not to think of how Ben's sleeves half-cover his hands, like he's just too small for his clothes. The sweater's sleeves extend far below those of the jacket, a strip of olive green between the fading denim and the pale, soft fingers.

"You want _me_ to do it?" Ben asks, a little incredulously.

By now, Jon is so antsy to have Ben away from him--because he can't very well _have Ben_, can he--that he nods quickly and makes a shooing motion with his hand toward Ben's desk.

"Sure," he says casually, glancing around, feeling as though every student in the classroom should be staring at him. "I trust you."

In spite of his cold hardness at seventeen, Ben finds himself flushing. "Okay," he says quietly, and looks at Dr. Quenton for a long moment. Those green eyes are full of things Jon couldn't fathom if he had years to parse them out. They're also full of things that look suspiciously familiar... things Jon turns away from, straightening papers uselessly and drinking from his VW mug. Herbal tea--Ben can smell it. He stares at the professor before catching himself and looking down at the form.

"Yeah. Thanks."

He goes back to his desk. He sits down; he tries not to kick his feet against the floor as he alternately fills out the form and glances up at Dr. Quenton. Ben is torn; part of him expects that Jon will end up treating him like the loser everyone thinks he is. He should quit being so goddamned gaga and just fill out the stupid form. There's homework; he can be half done by the time class ends if he hurries.

But he watches Jon take another sip from the mug, deep blue eyes poring over class notes. The tip of Jon's tongue slips out over his lips. Ben realizes his near-uncontrollable urge to taste that tea is not helping him get either his homework or this form done.

He smells chamomile, and doesn't care.


	4. Chapter 4

"That boy's nothing but trouble, Jon."

Jon Quenton tries not to think about the way his colleagues talk about Ben. But it's hard to ignore, particularly now, in the privacy of the staff room when the troubled young man is once more the subject of conversation. _Boy. Be honest with yourself, Jon; he's just a **kid**._ And when he tries to defend his belief in the boy, the looks come. It's not as if the administration and his fellow teachers don't know that Jon Quenton is gay, and to be honest, most of them don't seem to care.

Or at least they didn't seem to care until now. But now that he is showing an interest in Ben's progress, Jon can tell that the other teachers are concerned. He should be touched that they're just as concerned about him getting into trouble as they are about Ben being abused, but it rankles. It's only one more way in which almost everyone on the faculty has dismissed Ben, written him off as another teenaged loser.

"Watch yourself, Jon."

"Jon, I think you might want to consider swapping TAs with me."

"Jon, do you know anything about this new character that's showing up in Ben's art?"

"Dr. Quenton, all it takes is one single complaint from the boy's mother. Or worse, from the boy himself. You've made yourself and by extension, this school, terribly vulnerable."

"Will you all just leave me the hell alone? I'm not fucking the boy, all right!?"

The door slams behind Dr. Quenton as he storms out of the staff room. Glances are exchanged and eyebrows are raised. Mrs. Erickson, the art teacher, looks thoughtfully at the drawing depicting a tall, bearded, long-haired warrior wielding a glowing sword, a pretty young boy fighting at his side as he battles a horned monster. Manga isn't a style she enjoys but the care put into the drawing is obvious. _No you're not fucking him, Jon,_ she thinks. _It's worse than that. He's in love with you._


	5. Chapter 5

Trite phrases like "a tornado hit" or "a bomb went off"--the kinds of phrases his mother uses when she's articulate enough to complain--are generally apt when one wishes to describe Ben's room. It is all over laundry, which is piled in carefully-arranged heaps, among which he can find anything he needs within minutes. There are books everywhere; most of them are stacked in well-inventoried and often-rearranged piles against the walls. There is one bookshelf; it is full of anime videos and their corresponding action figures: Gatchaman, Akira, Ghost in the Shell, Gundam Wing... there's even a very small Speed Racer, prized above all else and encased in a plastic box.

The bookshelf is an upward extension of the desk, which is littered with Mountain Dew cans, abandoned sketches and crumpled paper with one or two lines on them. There is an algebra book on the corner of the desk, extending off the edge a bit; it hasn't moved in three weeks. Various thicknesses and hardnesses of art pencil are scattered about; here there is a charcoal stick, there, a gum eraser.

But the thing that commands center stage in a room far too small for the imagination of its inhabitant is neither the desk with its action figure collection, nor the piles everywhere on the floor.

What has taken over the room is the giant alien squid robot.

It is hideous. It has eight eyes and a huge maw at the center of its head. Its many legs hold various things: a dog, a car, a small tree. In the limb foremost to the view is a human.

Ben spent a lot of time on that mural. He sketched everything out in pencil, then detailed it all in with oil paints until it gleamed with glossy color. There are attack ships scattered about in the starry sky, blasting fruitlessly at the creature. There is, off to one side, the bare suggestion of the planet Earth, a blue crescent dotted and swirled with clouds and marked with a faint hint of Africa.

But for all the mural's impressive detail, Ben's human lacks several things: one of them being gender. The picture, with its awesome creature, tentacles wrapped around and suspiciously stuck into the human, depicts little more than a stick figure being molested in several ways. The human lacks a face. The hair is shapeless, the clothing is nondescript.

It is because Ben knows that deep down, in spite of the boy who left him cold and the fact that girls flirt with him mercilessly, he wants that figure in the mural to be male. He once wanted to paint the face like his own, give the boy red-brown hair and a thin body. He wanted that tentacle buried deeply into the boy, and he wanted the face, _his_ face, to be transfixed, staring into space, an ecstatic, silent moan breaking from delicate lips. Somewhere in the background, one of those ships was supposed to be carrying his rescuer, a mixed metaphor for the loss of innocence and the saving of happiness.

But now... now, he wants something else entirely.

Ben sighs, sprawled on the bed where he fell, exhausted. He came home, grabbed a burrito out of the freezer, microwaved it, and devoured it between the kitchen and his bedroom. His mother harped at him the entire time until he locked her out. He doesn't want to think about his mother, though. There's only one person he wants to think about.

He rolls over almost listlessly, reaching under the bed and dragging a small locked trunk out. He twirls the combination and flings the lid back, taking out a black, leather-bound notebook. Opening it reverently, Ben caresses the parchment--yes, real parchment that he bought with his paternal unit's Christmas check. With great care, he flips through the sheets. There is an overwhelming heroic theme to all of the sketches. Some of them are colored in with pencil, hinting at shades rather than filling in lines. Some of them are thickly blocked, others sketched with fine detail.

They are all of one man: a man with streaked, silvering hair pulled back into a tail, a noble, broken nose, sharp eyes. A man whose stance and bearing display confidence--the confidence of a hero. Ben pulls the last sheet out and gazes at it: it is a picture of the hero locked in a passionate kiss with a boy who looks remarkably like himself.

Sighing, he puts the drawings away and curls up on his side, trying not to listen to the ranting of his mother from the kitchen. She's missing pills again. Digging into a flannel pocket, Ben eats two of the tiny ones, crunching them up wholesale and grimacing. She'll be banging on the door in a moment, but by then, Ben will be far too mellow on her Valium to care.


	6. Chapter 6

Ben has cut classes again. Today, Jimmy Carlson and Martin Rogers approached him after PE. Well--they didn't _approach_ him so much as they _advanced_ on him. Ben knows--has always known--that any exchange starting with "Hey--McKenna..." is going to end badly. This one ended with Ben curled up on the floor, clutching his stomach and then rising shakily to wipe blood from his mouth and left eye.

He'd refused their request to rig their World Ec tests. It started, as it tends to, with that "Hey--McKenna..." and ended with Jimmy muttering, "Faggot" as he walked away.

He sits behind the coffee shop, staring down at his left Vision. On the toe of it, minutely, is a calculation he invented that numerically adds up his and Jon Quenton's names. It's stupid, but he was bored at the time.

_Faggot._

He has a headache and is faintly nauseated and, really, he doesn't know why he hasn't taken off. He shouldn't still be sitting here; he should have already toked up--or, what does he have in his pocket today? Darvocet. Yeah--his mom likes those. They're actually better to get wasted on than they are for pain, but when you're wasted, what hurts?

Ben sits there, elbows on his knees and hands drooping, wishing he didn't just remember he should be in World Ec right about now. He's wishing that in a fit of forgetfulness, he'd just gone home to get fucked up.

_The longer I stay there, the more time I spend with him..._

_Faggot._

The boy does not allow himself to complete the thought. He pulls the Darvocet out of the zippered cargo pocket of his pants and pops it, chewing it even though it's large and oh _God_, so bitter. His young, pretentious mind spins out hyperbole and symbolism for that before he drops the thought altogether.

Ben clutches his head. He feels dizzy and strange, as though the Darvocet has kicked in already. _Fuck,_ he thinks, and now there's no question: he couldn't go to World Ec even if he wanted to with an eye the size of a golf ball and Dr. Quenton being the only one on the face of the planet who would ask after him.

He wonders what he'll do to kill time for at least three or four days. He sure isn't going to tell Dr. Quenton why he has a black eye, and wishes he had time to let his eye and mouth heal all the way. He feels faintly guilty; Dr. Quenton's going to have a lot of trouble staying caught up without Ben there to do the little shit TAs are expected to do.

_And stare, and moon, and draw stupid equations...faggot...._

Sighing, Ben lights a cigarette, waiting for the bitter white pill to drown out Jimmy's sneer.


	7. Chapter 7

Jon Quenton has two separate routines when he comes home in the evenings: one for an "up" day and one for a "down" day. Although his medication keeps him on a fairly even keel these days, his habits for dealing with the roller coaster ride that is now diagnosed as bipolar were developed back in college; those habits have never died. He can always tell how intense a day it would have been if not for what he bitterly refers to as "better living through chemistry."

Up days see him cooking up a storm in his complicated, tidy kitchen, a glass of merlot or chardonnay at hand. Large amounts of complex soups, batches of homemade gnocci --- made from _his_ mother's recipe -- wildly complex salads in the summer, are all made while his expensive stereo blasts The Who, or the Dead, or even occasionally if he's in a very up mood, one of _his_ queer dance club collections.

Down days, as today has been, find him holed up in his bedroom. "The grizzly in his winter den," as _he_ used to say, although season has little to do with it, SAD not being one of Jon's problems.

Anxiety on the other hand…. He's taken the Ativan already and he still battles the thought that provoked the attack. He does a few slow stretches and then he sits down on his yoga mat and does his pattern breathing. Although he first learned the pattern using the "Om Mane Padme Hum" mantra picked up from some friend back in the dorms, reading to his niece gave him the phrase he uses now.

Breathe in. "All the way up ten times."

The fading light of a late fall afternoon makes its way though the sheer under curtains. The antique furniture, not one piece of which matches any other, glows courtesy of the light and the recent coats of wax applied during a particularly up Saturday. The light is also very kind to the quilt on the huge bed -- the only modern piece of furniture, as two tall men required a king sized bed -- creating interesting light shifts on the brightly colored velvet. Jon's sister Beth spent a fair amount of money shipping the quilt all the way from Fairbanks, but, as her cheerful note said, "It just screamed 'Jon' at me when I saw it at the craft fair."

Hold the breath. "All the way down ten times."

A harsher light would reveal that, although somewhat disorderly, the room is not truly messy, nor is it at all dirty. There are, of course, books everywhere. Not just the huge, dry texts of his chosen field, but the bits and pieces of a collection that can only be described as eclectic. The pulp science fiction of his childhood lies next to the pretentious Pynchon of his college years. The latest layman-speak explanation of the Unified Theory rests on top of the most recent volume of the LBJ biography. Best Gay Male Erotica 1999 is flung casually on one of _his_ books of wilderness photographs, and both are covered by a garishly-colored encyclopedia of anime themes and subjects.

Breathe out. "All the way up ten times."

In the quiet light it is almost impossible to make out the subjects of the black and white photographs on the walls. Although they seem abstract, they are in fact, all landscapes in the Ansel Adams style. All save one, a discreet photograph of a tall, lean man, lying nude on a rock. Even now there are still times Jon's face heats up while looking at the photograph, but _he_ always smiled at Jon when Jon got flustered by it. "Think of it as just another landscape, the landscape of desire." A pause and then: "Fuck me, but aren't *I* the pretentious art queen?"

Hold the lack of breath. "All the way down ten times."

If the lack of strong light renders the "art" photographs abstract, it reduces the family photographs -- clustered atop the high dresser -- to muzzy blurs. The teenaged Jon teaching young Beth to ride a bicycle while their father looks on is no more visible than the snapshot of Jon wearing his cap and gown. Beth's latest Christmas photo of the kids can't be distinguished from a large group shot taken at that last Thanksgiving. Jon doesn't need the light to see any of them and the Thanksgiving photo in particular is etched in his memory. _He_, Joseph Francis Xanato -- Xani to his friends -- was already thin and pale by then. He had finally given up carrying the camera, which had become too heavy for him, and he had fallen asleep before the pie that afternoon. A year later, Jon and Beth and Mama Xanato and Xani's queer cousin Rita had finished Xani's section for the AIDS quilt; the devastating burden of guilt had kept Jon from ever seeing any of the Xanato family again.

Breathe in. "All the way up ten times."

Of course, like most people, Jon rarely pays much attention to the familiar comfort of his surroundings. And today, as he tries for a little serenity, he can't quite rid himself of one thought. It's the thought that brought on the anxiety earlier and even though he can feel the artificial calm of the medication kicking in, he still wonders.

_Where the hell has that boy been these last few days?_


	8. Chapter 8

Dr. Quenton's giving the lecture on DaiCorp today. He has made note of when the merger and takeover happened, and has told the class to mark the change--yes, actually write--in their textbooks.

He did not, mercifully, note who brought those changes to his attention.

Ben watches Dr. Quenton move from one side of the board to the other, his hair clubbed back the way it always is, his hands covered in chalk from the morning classes and his dark green button-down shirt smudged as well. Ben has always liked the way Dr. Quenton doesn't mind where the chalk gets. There's usually a flat streak across one hip from where he's leaned sideways on the board, one hand propped on the chalk tray. Right now, that's how he's standing, a shoulder almost pressed to the words he just put up there about Yohachi/Daisun.

Just as Dr. Quenton turns around to address the class, Ben drops his eyes to his paper. He's not taking notes, of course, but sketching out another picture, this one a simple line drawing on binder paper. It's the cowled man with the glowing sword. He's standing on a hill, and Ben has drawn the spiky thought bubble of an enraged manga hero, complete with the thick, slanted words, "....then you will have to DIE!" The man's name is Djinn, and he is foreboding on the outside, his cool, impenetrable shell all but nerve-wracking to those he comes up against. Mostly obscured in his dark cowl, Djinn stares down the hill, his cloak billowing gently in an invisible breeze. On the hillside are the sketched suggestions of a boy and two enemies, battling.

The comforting drone of Dr. Quenton's voice suddenly lifts. "...found out the other day that there is a subsidiary corporation that produces manga."

Looking up, Ben glances around; many of the faces are blank in class, _But,_ he snorts inwardly, _aren't they always?_

Dr. Quenton has not looked at him particularly, but Ben feels him as though the professor were staring. Quietly and slowly, Ben closes his notebook as his teacher segues into the twenty-minute work-time he sets up toward the end of class. Ben really wanted to be absent; he wanted to disappear, to not be reminded of the split on his lip that still hurts when he eats and the swollen place on his eye that his mother, it seems, has never noticed. He supposes now, though, it's not so bad to be in Dr. Quenton's class. He looks down at his notebook and sighs a little, and when he looks up again, Dr. Quenton is moving toward him.

"I think," Dr. Quenton says quietly, glancing down at the notebook, "that you and I are going to have to chat after class, Mr. McKenna."

Swallowing, Ben slumps a little.


	9. Chapter 9

On the plain, white, school-quality paper is a loving depiction of a tall man with shadowed, slitted eyes--Djinn, as is scrawled across the bottom of the picture. His features are nearly obscured inside the hood of a dark cloak but there is enough visible in the cowl to make out a high forehead, a noble but broken nose and the trace details of a beard. The only color on this figure is the glint of blue in the hooded figure's eyes.

In the man's arms lies a boy. He is limp, his body covered by scorched, ragged wounds. The only color on _this_ figure is the occasional splotch of blood. His face is obscured, his head tipped so far back that the only thing we can see is an angle of jawline and the drape of hair that falls from his head. His outward arm dangles down at an awkward angle; the other is thrown haphazardly around Djinn's neck, as though the boy were too weak to get a decent grasp before he fell unconscious.

But the next picture is far more telling: it is of this Djinn, robe no longer draped around his own body but in his hands as he tugs it over the--sleeping? unconscious?--body of the boy, now unmistakeably Ben. The hair is longer, more flowing; the eyes are larger, his body type is more slender. But the obvious touches are there--most notably the cleft chin and the mole on the forehead and one cheek.

Uncloaked, Djinn is obviously a stronger, larger-than-life, only slightly restructured Jon Quenton. His hair is drawn back into a swooping half-tail, bound back by some kind of woven tie. His demeanor, forbidding and dangerous in previous drawings, is nevertheless gentle here.

Unimpressed by the style, the art teacher has, regardless, been following this apparent story arc of Ben's. Djinn and the boy are a fighting team, vanquishing monsters. Once, there was a Gorgon-like creature with fangs that dripped a saliva that burned the ground beneath her, and another time, a blank, faceless creature, white and featureless, that was somehow more disturbing than any of the others.

These recent pictures, however, depict something yet more bothersome: a rescue. Mrs. Erickson blinks, shaking her head a little, caught between her compassion as a teacher and her duty as a staff member of the school. Ben is seeing far more in Jon Quenton than is there.

_I hope,_ she corrects herself silently, and sighs. _Oh, God, I hope he's seeing more than is there._

Mrs. Erickson has noticed the hero for a while now; she's paid attention as he's gradually taken shape. Now she stares at the unmistakeable likenesses and wonders if Benjamin McKenna knows how dangerous these drawings are, or if he's simply too far under the influence of a dream to care.

Tucking the drawing away, she sits a while, considering.


	10. Chapter 10

> I know I told you about Ben McKenna. He's my TA this year and he's in my World Ec. Class. I swear I think there's something very wrong with his life; he didn't show up at school for three days and I'll bet anything that the note from his mother was forged, although I didn't see it. And then, when he came in this afternoon … he'd been hit and it was pretty bad. Well you know me; I had to do something.
> 
> So I asked to talk to him, but away from school at Coffee Werks. I don't know, I guess I thought that he would feel more comfortable somewhere else. Or maybe, given all the fucking insinuations I've been putting up with, I thought **I'd** be more comfortable. Whatever.
> 
> So I wormed it out of him; he got beat up by a couple of kids at school because he wouldn't rig their tests in my class. Fuck. He convinced me not to do anything about it and yeah, I understand that my interference would only make it worse, particularly if he wasn't prepared to come out and accuse the other boys, but damn. I got so pissed that I had to excuse myself and go punch the wall in the bathroom. The only good thing is that he had the good sense to see a doctor about it. Well, and that it didn't happen at home. I was afraid it might have.
> 
> And then we talked about things, his art mainly. And suddenly he was a person, not just this kid with potential. It's strange how that happens. But anyway….

Beth Quenton-Rand doesn't know whether she should smile or worry. Jon's letter is so typical of him; she can almost hear his voice as she stares at her computer screen. _He must have been "up" when he wrote this,_ she thinks. She knows him well enough to know that "up" doesn't mean happy; she can remember any number of desperately unhappy "up" moments during the last stages of Xani's illness as well as happy up moments that always seem to lead to the best food she's ever had. And no matter what his mood is, an intense rush of words always accompanies being "up."

And now he's going on about a student. That's not all that unusual; even as a kid, Jon was a sucker for the underdog. But she can't help but notice the insinuations he brings up and then immediately glosses over.

_Oh Jon, I hope you don't do anything stupid._


	11. Chapter 11

"Oh God … oh yeah … oh fuck…." Hands that are much stronger than they look tangle in Jon's hair as he slowly slides his mouth down over Ben's cock. His own hands cradle slim hips as the young man moans and squirms on the deck, feet splashing in the water of the hot tub. Jon looks up and smiles as much as he can; Ben's head is thrown back, his red-gold hair gleaming like a halo in the rich autumn sun.

"No wait … I'm gonna…."

Jon briefly raises his head and grins at the look of concern on Ben's flushed face. "I hope so," he says. This time his move is sudden and Ben's shout echoes around the back yard as Jon takes his cock all the way in. Several decades of skill combine with the hair-trigger eagerness of youth and Ben's shouts are a great deal louder as he…..

"And you're listening to the ARROW; all classic rock, all the time. Next up, Holly with the traffic and then a block of the best classic rock in town. But first…."

Jon's large hand slams down on the snooze button and his mouth works a little as he desperately tries to recapture his dream, but it is gone and he sighs heavily. Lifting the covers, he looks down at the erection tenting his shorts and tries to remember why in hell he promised himself he wouldn't jerk off to thoughts of his favorite student.

"Because that would be wrong," he mumbles inanely, and rolls over.

Maybe if he's lucky, the dream will come back before the annoying sounds of Lynard Skynard or Boston force him to flee his warm bed for the harsh reality of another day spent avoiding a pair of large, green eyes.


	12. Chapter 12

Dr. Quenton knows manga. He knows McFarlane. He knows _Crumb,_ for God's sake. Dr. Quenton talked to Ben like he was a person, not a statistic, not some sad, lonely, misunderstood "Oops, we lost another one." It isn't that he's misunderstood--Ben hasn't believed that in years--it's that people don't care.

Ben lies with his hands tucked up behind his head and stares at the ceiling, wondering briefly why he hasn't painted anything on it before reaching down to adjust himself in his jeans. Closing his eyes, he can hear Dr. Quenton's voice asking about the eye, and he can hear himself answering almost hurriedly. He's replayed the conversation over and over in his mind since yesterday; he remembers every nuance of every move Dr. Quenton made. He remembers the discourse over school second only to the brief conversation about Dr.Quenton's career.

Now he scratches idly at his skeletons-fucking t-shirt, thinking. He doesn't give a damn what any of the other teachers think. He doesn't care anything about their state evaluations and their college prep and their grading system based on what a stupid, bigoted, hypocritical footballhead like Jimmy Carlson would slide through. The professor made a smart remark about working at the local McDonald's. Ben fumed, but only briefly.

It turns out that Dr. Quenton doesn't care about the prestige of working at a university based on a ridculous "publish or perish" rule. Ben called him on that, and Dr. Quenton--Jon, though Ben knew he wouldn't appreciate that--laughed and looked at him with respect.

Even now, it heats Ben through. Jon's eyes got a look in them that was surprising and _hot_, if Ben's honest with himself. It was a soft look, a warm one, and Ben remembers now the way the blue eyes crinkled when they smiled.

"God," he sighs, closing his eyes, and forces himself to think of something--anything--and Djinn is who pops into his head. It doesn't help. All he can see of Djinn is a hot kiss, animated in his mind. Ben's hand slides lower across his t-shirt and then dips into his loose waistband, stomach concave under the dark, yellow-stitched denim. Djinn clings and moves, and then he moans, and Ben moans, too, hand curving over his sudden erection through his boxer briefs. The sensation is icing on top of the fact that out of Djinn's throat comes Jon's voice.

"Jon," Ben whimpers, testing the name, his hand sliding faster over his cotton-covered erection. He wants to unzip his pants, get all of this out of the way, but the vision of Djinn, sleek and erect, driving into the body of the boy who fights by his side, overtakes everything. The boy's head is thrown back, his eyes closed, his face contorted in agonized bliss: the face of the boy in the mural, if Ben lets himself think of it, and that nearly sends him over. It's insane. Even in his lust-fogged state, Ben knows it's all senseless visual, but he doesn't care.

"Ah--" Ben yelps softly, yanking his hand out of his pants and hurriedly undoing them, urgent with the accidental fantasy of Djinn and the tentacled monster and _Oh, God, that smile_, all meshing together. He fairly claws at his pants, shoving them down past his ass and wrapping his hand around his cock, putting his wrist into his mouth to keep back the high-pitched shout. He comes, legs bending up involuntarily as he curls forward, body jerking with the orgasm.

Sighing raggedly, he slumps backward, suddenly overwhelmed. "Oh, God," he moans, stripping out of his shirt and using it to scrub at his stomach before throwing it down and curling up on his side, away from the mural. "Oh, God...."

Ben keeps his eyes closed, focusing on the black at the back of his eyelids to keep himself from seeing. He has classes with that man, he has to look at him.

_How am I going to look at him?_

Gradually, it dawns on Ben that his wrist, red with bite marks sharper than he'd intended, stings.


	13. Chapter 13

Dr. Quenton moves with slow precision, hands extended, body taut, muscles flexing under a light sheen of sweat. The sun dapples through the white elms over him, highlighting his shoulders, a thigh, an outstretched hand. Ben watches, hidden behind one of those fat elm trunks. He's leaning on the tree, breathless. He's been here since long before Dr. Quenton arrived. He intended to draw, to get some more Djinn down, but now--now, he can't move. The idea of discovery isn't what bothers him; Jon invited him here for the mornings when he practices his Tai Chi, the day they had coffee. And it isn't as though it's not public property.

But Dr. Quenton said that he wanted Ben to come if he ever needed to talk, and Ben figured they both knew he wasn't ready to do _that_. It took Ben two weeks to work up the nerve to come here, and he isn't sure he can explain why he's hiding behind a tree, rock-hard and staring. Hell, it took him several days before he could even look Dr. Quenton in the eye. That, of course, was compounded by the fact that Ben spent a lot of time replaying that fantasy over and over again--and jerking off to it, over and over again.

"Damn," he whispers under his breath, pressing closer to the tree and hissing in a breath as the semi-rough surface of the bark reaches his erection through his jeans. He leans his cheek on the trunk, watching as Dr. Quenton finishes his exercises, then proceeds to stretch. Ben licks his lips unconsciously, his breathing shallow and unsteady. Dr. Quenton cranks his arms, rolls his neck, bends from the waist, and Ben forgets how to breathe as his teacher then drops to the ground and curves backward in a cobra position, face tipped to the sun.

Eyes wide, Ben turns away, pressing his back to the tree. The images burn themselves to his eyes: Jon stretching, moving, pressing himself to the ground, and then the image of Djinn doing similar, more warlike exercises impresses itself on him. The wind hisses through the trees, then, a little gust, and Ben catches his breath.

"Fuck," he squeaks lightly, and takes off, darting down the hill and toward the bus stop.

Jon looks toward the stand of trees, suppressing disappointment.


	14. Chapter 14

Jon is stuck in traffic; something that rarely happens because his commute is a complex system of surface streets designed to avoid major roads and the freeway. But today the route has failed him and he's been sitting in the same place for over 10 minutes. He's switched from the Kate Wolfe in the CD player to the radio in order to get a traffic report, and he's pulled a stack of papers out of the large messenger bag he uses in lieu of a briefcase.

"And now, Foreigner with 'Cold as Ice.'"

Before the song can even start up, Jon hits the button for the next preset station.

"What this town needs," he mutters to himself, as some sort of acoustic alt rock comes over the speakers, "is a classic rock station that prides itself on playing music that doesn't suck." The song comes to a close and another starts up and he sighs. He hates the political orientation of the news radio and he might well be past the accident or whatever is holding up traffic before he actually gets a traffic report.

But the current song isn't too awful, and he shrugs and looks for the memo from the VP that he'd put aside to read later. It's a new list of "inappropriate" articles of clothing. Jon sighs. No doubt half of Ben's wardrobe will be featured here. Of course, Ben hasn't been wearing the skeleton shirt lately. He told Jon that the kids call him "fag" when he wears it, and, remembering that conversation, Jon can feel himself getting angry again.

They've had several interesting conversations -- most of them at school, working on class prep -- since their meeting in the coffeehouse. Slowly, Jon is learning about Ben's other interests and the interesting places their tastes collide; Ben likes Hong Kong action films and has seen even more of them than Jon has. It didn't even make Jon feel old when Ben was impressed to learn that Jon saw "Enter the Dragon" when it first ran in the US. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to offer to loan Ben 'Kentucky Fried Movie" when Jon discovered that Ben had never seen it. It was only much later that Jon realized that lending a student -- particularly this student -- something that raunchy might not be a good idea.

Jon sighs and digs further through the papers he'd hastily grabbed off his desk in his hurry to leave school. He's having more and more moments when he simply forgets that Ben is a student and not a friend. The tension is growing; it's getting harder and harder for Jon to remember why he shouldn't flirt with Ben, why those hesitant glances Ben sneaks in his direction should be met with a blank look or at the most, a kind of avuncular friendliness that says "there's nothing here for you."

It doesn't help that for three weekends in a row Ben has watched Jon work out in the park without coming over to talk. It bothers Jon, but what bothers him more is that he keeps catching himself showing off for the boy. He knows he shouldn't and when he gets into the heart of his routine, he is still able to lose himself in the calm stillness of the exercise. But afterwards ... well it's oddly flattering that, at his age, he's still interesting to someone.

A new song comes on, something with a piano and a female vocalist and Jon sighs, shoving aside his thoughts of Ben and digging deeper for the memo. He takes a quick glance to check that no one is going anywhere and then he looks back down at the pile of paper in his lap, his eyes going wide in shock as he realizes just what it is that he's looking at.

The tall warrior, the hood of his dark cloak thrown back and his glowing sword hanging from one hand, is locked in a passionate clinch with the young man, their mouths pressed together. The boy has his hands buried in the older man's hair and even in the static medium of a drawing, it is obvious that the young man is aggressively pursuing the kiss.

It's also obvious that the warrior is Jon Quenton and the young man is Ben McKenna.

As Jon stares at the picture, feeling an odd sense of inevitability, one line from the chorus of the song on the radio catches his ear.

"a sorta fairytale with you ."


	15. Chapter 15

Not having a car and living in a tight suburban area, Ben knows the bus system like the back of his hand. His arm hangs from a strap now, his grip tight as the bus rounds a corner. This is the way the day ends--"Not with a bang, but a whimper," he always says to himself--as he rides the 23 home. It's never as crowded as the school bus except at rush hour, which is usually when Ben takes it. If nothing else, Jimmy Carlson doesn't ride the 23, ever. Jimmy Carlson's mother always picks him up in a vivid blue Miata, smiling.

Ben wonders how Jimmy rates a mother who actually makes eye contact.

Sighing, he glances around for a place to sit and, after a moment, finds one on a thick, orange, utilitarian plastic bench. He smiles at the old woman next to him. He always smiles at her; they always stand or sit near each other, so it's almost like they've talked. Ben opens his backpack and pulls out a thin portfolio.

"Oh that's lovely," the old woman croaks as he opens it, and he smiles at her again, hesitantly, wondering if she's going to want to _talk_ now. She's commented on a picture of his manga boy, whom he really hasn't named yet, and Djinn. The boy's standing on a hilltop, hair flying in the wind, fists on his hips. Behind him is the hero, cowl thrown back away from his face, hair also streaming back like his billowing cloak--green, this time.

But that isn't the picture Ben wanted. He flips through sketches, some still rough and raw. There are composites of the glowing sword or the ship Djinn flies. Some of them are profile portraits of the boy and Djinn, gratuitous close-ups with narrowed eyes and dangerous expressions, crosshair lines still visible through the eyes and down the faces. He finds one of them kissing, but it's rough and Djinn's head is lopsided; it was an early sketch that was never good enough to make it to parchment.

"Oh," the woman says quietly, and Ben looks at her. "They're queer."

Ben looks down, throat tightening in anticipation of judgment. He doesn't even know this woman, and yet--

"My daughter's queer," she adds, inexplicably. "Has the sweetest life mate. They adopted a little Vietnamese baby last year because, well..." She lowers her voice. "It's very hard to get that sort of thing done around here. What with all the--'they shouldn't be allowed' kind of talk." She nods knowingly and looks at the picture, leaning over a bit; she smells like lemons and vanilla. "Lovely."

For a moment, Ben thinks she's going to pat his hand or kiss his cheek or something, and then he almost wishes she would. The whole incident is both rattling and comforting, and he has a strange urge to hug her. Blinking, he murmurs hoarsely, "Thanks."

Only momentarily distracted, he remembers that he set out for something in particular--and can't find it. There's the bad kiss, the hilltop pose, the closeups, the composite blueprints, the--where is the _good_ kiss?

Suddenly hot and sick with realization, he remembers that he was working on it at Dr. Quenton's desk while the professor was at a brief staff meeting. Ben had been instructed to wait for him, and he'd been told to work on something constructive--well, there was very little that was as constructive to Ben as his art.

But now it's missing.

"Oh, fuck," he whispers, and he's sure his face is bright red, he feels so hot. "Oh, please, oh shit, please tell me I didn't...."

But he did; he left it right there on the desk after shuffling something over it on Dr. Quenton's return. Shoving the rest of the artwork back into the portfolio, he mentally retraces his steps--even considers getting off the bus and going back to school. _What good would that do?_ he demands of himself. "Hi, Dr. Quenton, can I go through the papers on your desk so you don't find the picture of us necking like fiends?"

Choking back a helpless, frustrated noise, Ben puts his head in his hands and wonders if they can expel a student for that, or worse, if Jon will stop talking to him altogether--will Ben lose his TA status? Will he lose Dr. Quenton's friendship?

_Jesus, it can't possibly get any worse than this,_ he moans inwardly.

"There," the woman says quietly, and pats his shoulder, just once. "I think this is your stop, son."


	16. Chapter 16

Ben's wrist and hand move with quick, jerky movements, years of practice lending themselves to tight precision. Without realizing it, he's drawing to the rhythm of Godsmack, biting his lip and angrily nodding his head. The pencil scrapes over the matte DuPont interior paint, sketching out the details Ben thought not too long ago he'd leave alone. The boy in the mural slowly takes form: first the long, flowing red hair, then the pained, ecstatic expression, then the clenched hands, either gripping the tentacle around his waist or trying to push it away. Ben feels a momentary flash of pride in the ambiguity of the gesture before he grows angry again.

The day started out just fine; Ben went to school to the tune of his mother yelling something about how she knew he was stealing money out of her purse, and that thankfully ended up drowned out by the sound of the garbage truck barreling up the street. He caught the 18 to a couple of blocks from Reagan High and walked the rest of the way, the hems of his jeans dragging the ground at his heels. It was normal.

His stomach clenched tighter the closer he got to World Ec., and he briefly considered skipping, but then remembered that Dr. Quenton didn't react too keenly to him cutting last time, so he went. But today, as in half a dozen other days, the teacher said nothing about the art that Ben was _sure_ he'd left on that desk. Ben began to wonder if he'd left it elsewhere, and that gave him a flash of panic.

It gives him one now as he draws the parted legs of the boy in the picture. Resolutely, he finishes sketching the black tentacle shoving itself into the boy's body. There--right there, between the rounded cheeks of his ass, the thick tentacle disappears. Ben considers doing one diving down the boy's throat, too, and then decides he can do that to a different human; he doesn't want to munge the details of the boy's face. At any rate, Ben's enraged enough now that his hands are starting to shake, and that's bad on a mural he's going to have to look at for the rest of his days here. Instead, he takes up a small tin of white matte paint and obliterates the tree limb and car that the robotic squid is holding. If he's going to be Ben's harbinger of destruction, he needs to be doing more raping and less pillaging, Ben has decided.

_Just a few more months, I'll get my trust fund money, and then I'm outta here._ It's interminable, though. Eighteen might as well be millennia away. Still, Ben thanks his faceless ghost of a father for the fifty thousand dollars that's supposed to go toward college, but has no legal stipulations on it.

"Thanks, Dad, and fuck you, too," Ben mutters aloud, and it sounds good to him, muffled against Nine Inch Nails screaming about roughly the same thing. Thanks, and fuck you. They make it sound more appetizing, though.

So after school, Ben went to the little back-alley bookstore where the dude with the meatball sandwich fetish sold him most of his manga, special ordered. And the dude pulled out something Ben never thought he'd see: a _Tetsuwan Atom_ art cel in all its overly simplistic, chibi glory. God, it was _Astro Boy_, and it was _mint._

"Holy fuck," Ben whispered reverently, holding the plexiglass frame like it was Waterford. "How much?"

"Ninety," the guy said casually. "You're a good kid, all that manga, I'll give it to you for eighty."

"Shit," Ben sighed, staring. "I won't have that kind of money for a while. You can't--put it on layaway for me?"

He knew the guy was going to say no. "Man, I can sell it for a hundred, hundred fifty easy. I can't put it up for you if I can get that kind of money now."

Ben understands this; he and a handful of other manga geeks and the half-dozen Spider-Man followers are all that keep this guy in business. Even now, with overblown frustration burning in his throat and all that anger adding on, he understands the guy probably paid near what he's asking, and he has to get that money back quickly.

But dammit... _Astro Boy!_ The first anime ever to run in the U.S.! It was _incredible,_ but there was no way Ben could afford it.

But that wasn't even the worst of it. What makes him light up a cigarette now, in the middle of his bedroom in pure, uncaring fury, is that his mother is gone.

She left him a note on the kitchen counter on that stupid rose-scented paper. She'd be gone for the week, the whole week, and she left him nothing--no money to get to school with, nothing for groceries. She knows the school bus doesn't even come by here--he's not even signed up for the route.There might be enough food in the house to get him through the week. On later inspection, Ben discovered there is actually probably plenty for him to eat, and he has enough to get to school for about three days, but--that isn't the point. She left.

_Too bad she didn't say she was going forever,_ he snipes to himself, and then fear hits him again--what if she _is_ gone forever? What if she just... never comes back?

But he won't let himself think that. Not now. _Get to the end of the week, Ben,_ he admonishes himself, _and then you'll know how pissed off you can get._ And after putting out his cigarette, he begins to draw again.


	17. Chapter 17

The clouds are thick and gray. They change the quality of the light altogether and threaten heavy rain. Against his better judgment, Ben stands under his cluster of elm trees, wondering. He wonders if he should go down the little bank and approach Dr. Quenton openly. He wonders if his teacher has, indeed, seen the sketch and is too much a professional to say. He wonders if he should have spent the bus money to get here when, with things as they are, Ben will only have enough to go to school Monday and Tuesday.

Big, fat raindrops start to fall, and after a few moments of them landing in his hair, Ben shivers. Jon--_Dr. Quenton,_ he forces himself to think--has abruptly stopped his Tai Chi movements and is gathering up his things. Sighing, frustrated, Ben ducks behind the tree and leans his back against it, then slides down, the hem of his denim jacket catching on the bark. _Bus money wasted, gonna be dripping wet, and can't watch Jon work out_ or _get the balls up to just go talk to him. Great. Just--great._

He is knuckling his eyes, suddenly tired, when--

"Are you going to sit there in the rain all afternoon?"

Ben jumps, painfully startled, the adrenaline shooting straight through to his skin. "Fuck!" he exclaims, and then calms himself, as though being caught in the rain in a park two bus transfers away from where he lives is old hat.

Jon looks marginally guilty that he's scared Ben so badly, but he apologizes quickly and jerks his head in the direction of the parking lot. "C'mon. It's cold out here. Let's go get some coffee."

Burying a thousand questions about the cool look on Dr. Quenton's face--and desperately embarrassed that it seems his cover's been blown for a good while now, if he ever had one--Ben nods his head. "Okay," he says in a quiet voice, a little more shakily than he'd intended, and follows the professor rather sheepishly out of the park.


	18. Chapter 18

Jon is staring blindly at his iced tea. It's better than staring in shock at Ben, who is huddled in his chair ignoring his sandwich. The young man is even more upset than he was when Jon startled him at the park and dragged him off to Coffee Werks for lunch.

It was hard enough to remain calm and give a nice neutral answer when Ben asked what he thought of the picture. After all, it would hardly do for Jon to answer: "It's on my nightstand and I look at it all the time." So he praised it quietly, telling Ben it was "well done" or some such crap about style.

Things went downhill from there. Very far downhill. Jon still wants to slap Ben's mother from here into the next time zone; how on earth could the woman just take off like that leaving only a note and nothing else? Hard on the heels of that revelation, came Ben's desperate, hesitant confession of desire for Jon.

_And I know everyone thinks I'm just a fuckup, and I don't care about that, but I just ... you're my friend, and ... and that ... it hurts because now if I say what I want to say I just *know* you won't want to be anymore. I ... think I ... I didn't just pick you for Djinn because I see you all the time. And ... I didn't just pick me for the sidekick because I know what I look like, either. _

Jon had stared at him, not surprised; after all, he'd have to be blind and deaf not to notice Ben's interest. But to have it out in the open like this.... Jon can't help the guilty thrill that comes of knowing he was right; Ben does want him.

Maybe it was that thrill, or maybe it was the way Ben looked away, as if afraid Jon would react with anger or disgust, but Jon found he simply couldn't do it. He couldn't say the things he has no problem saying to the pretty little girls who think his eyes are gorgeous and who bend over in their low cut dresses to try and tempt a man for whom the female form has no real attraction. But to give _Ben_ the whole "while I'm flattered, you must realize that I simply cannot...." No, that would be too cruel.

And so he returned the conversation to the subject of Ben's mother, only to discover that Ben seems to treat her medications as a source of his own escape.

Jon is no fool; he's been around enough people to recognize the behavior of an addict, and Ben simply doesn't fit that description. Once again, the proper words come and this time Jon says them, trying ignore the small voice in the back of his head that calls him a hypocrite even as he speaks. There's a difference, he tells that inner voice, between the occasional bowl of weed, and taking someone else's Percocet.

"Ben," he now says, still staring at his glass. "I'm going to trust you to be honest with me here. How much are you using?" He looks up and is a little surprised when Ben meets his eyes.

"Four, five times a week. If I take any more than that, she notices." As if he's suddenly realized just what it is he has said, he puts his head on the table with a huge sigh.

"This...." Jon clears his throat, forcing the words out. "This isn't good. You must know that. I'm hardly one to lecture but those things are dangerous."

A small noise makes him look closer at the head and shoulders bowed over their small table. Ben is crying; Jon is sure of it, although the young man is very still.

Moved by a whole tangle of emotions he can't quite unravel right now, Jon looks around and then, noting that the place is empty, he kneels next to Ben's chair. When he speaks, his voice is low and reassuring.

"Ben ... Ben I'm not going to tell anyone about this unless you want me to. Is there anything ... what can I do?" It's almost too big. Too much information to take in at once.

Ben's voice is hushed and a little husky.

"Nothing ... nothing, okay? I just ... I'll be eighteen in a few months, I'm just ... please don't tell, I'll stop if you want me to, I just need to be where I am and ride it out. I'm fine as long as they don't try to shuffle me off to a foster home or state care or some shit like that."

"No ... that isn't what you need." Jon pauses and then, without really thinking of the consequences, says the first thing that comes to mind. "C'mon. This isn't the place for this. Do you mind coming back to my place?"


	19. Chapter 19

It starts with, "Do you want a drink?"

_Scotch would be great,_ Ben sighs internally, but only hugs himself and shakes his head, murmuring a demurral. He is wandering around, looking at things, at pictures, at the pasta in great jars on the shelves in the kitchen, at the track lighting, artistically highlighting stuff, at the hardwood floors. Ben is struck by the feel, more than anything. In spite of his rapid spilling of confession after confession until he thought there was nothing left of him but raw, naked humiliation, Ben feels... at home. He wonders what Dr. Quenton is thinking, wonders now if it's alright in his head to call him Jon, now that he's in this house where the professor eats breakfast and reads novels, maybe, and brushes his teeth. He should feel lost and confused, but the smell of this place, warm and easy, a bread and butter smell, makes Ben want to relax and tell more.

Is there anything left to tell?

When Ben tries, when he tries to make a joke about the professor's apparent speechlessness, he receives a soft, almost wounded plea from Jon not to look at him like that. So Ben looks away, thinking he should leave... the conversation is painful as they dance around what's there, and it will hurt to remember it because everything, _everything_ is so split wide open. Details get lost in the looks and the soft, desperate feel of what lies between them.

No--it _really_ starts with, "Ben... what did I say?"

And of course Ben can't give a real answer; everything Jon said was perfect and professional and noncommital and cool in its own way. It was, "I'm supposed to tell it to you this way...." Because Jon is nothing if not about straight up honesty with Ben.

But one thing stuck with the boy all along: Jon never did tell it to him that way.

Maybe it actually starts with the idea that no matter what happens, no matter what Ben does or tells, Jon will never go away. Jon will never leave.

So when the details get lost and the moment's there, Ben leans forward, somehow having managed to work his way close enough to Jon. He can see the look there, he can feel the distinct lack of pulling away. It's now. It's time. Inevitability has come home. And Ben leans up and will later realize that at some point, unknown to them both, Jon must have leaned down. He must have.

It's soft, a dry, light brush of lips, and dull, throbbing heat opens up in Ben's stomach as he does it again and this time is received. A sharp little intake of breath interrupts nothing. Ben is lost, and he knows, _Oh, God,_ he knows Jon is, too. It is beyond good when Ben offers his tongue, still with the hesitancy of a boy anticipating rejection. He is afraid of breaking the spell, but what heartens him is the small, answering groan of "Oh, God," from Jon as the kiss opens up and explodes into warm, pressing hunger.

It is a blessedly sweet, long moment later when Ben throws his head back and gasps, "I've wanted that for so long...."

Even sweeter and more blessed is the reply: "Me too."


	20. Chapter 20

Jon can hardly believe that it is his voice -- strained and hoarse -- that answers Ben. Some part of him, a dim, distant part that is aware that the slim body pressed up against him belongs to a minor, manages to croak out his next question.

"Ben ... are you sure...?"

He doesn't know what he'll do if Ben says no; doesn't know what he'll do if he says yes. In fact, Jon is not sure which reply he fears more.

Ben just stares at him, almost as if Jon's grown another head or something.

"Yes, please ... I'm so sure."

Jon tightens his arms around Ben -- and when did they first wrap around the young man, so that one of Jon's hands is loosely cupping Ben's neck? Once more he must have leaned down without conscious thought because Ben's mouth is just ... there, open and lush and a little hesitant.

It is that hesitancy that reminds Jon to let Ben lead. And Ben does, moving in closer, until Jon can feel the firm heat of him through the layers of clothing that separate them. Ben's moaning now, small sounds that cause their lips to vibrate just a little, and it one of the most erotic sounds -- and feelings --- that Jon's ever encountered.

When the pressure of Ben's body against Jon's turns into squirming, Jon draws a deep breath. He doesn't really want this to turn into a mutual grind against his kitchen door and yet he has no idea what Ben wants it to turn into.

"Ben," he breathes, drawing his head back, but leaving his body in close contact with the young man. He has come to realize that he fears rejecting Ben almost as Ben fears rejection. "Have you ... what do you want ... from this?"

"Anything. Oh, God, if you just stand here and kiss me, I might come from _that_." The desperation in Ben's voice so closely mirrors Jon's own feelings that he's able to laugh along with Ben.

"Yeah," he replies echoing his earlier statement. "Me too."

"Oh God," Ben whispers, looking at him in what seems almost like wonder, and Jon finds it a little unnerving. Can he possibly manage to measure up to Ben expectations?

"Ben?"

"Yeah." And Ben blinks and shakes his head, smiling.

The smile -- half uncertain, half cocky -- gives Jon courage and, leaving his arm around Ben's waist, he gently steers Ben in the direction of the bedroom.


	21. Chapter 21

Ben only stands in the doorway, lost in the idea of Dr. Quenton's bedroom, for a moment. Suddenly the long, scalding kiss has given way to the reality of intense nervousness and a more intense desire to please, to not look like he's never been in this position before.

But he's never, and he has to remember how to do things like stop staring.

"I--don't know what I want," Ben confesses softly, flushing. "I... I probably don't know what I'm doing."

Jon bends his head, kissing and murmuring at the side of Ben's neck, eliciting a shiver. "Getting naked is always a good place to start."

So Ben does, stripping with nervous efficiency, startled at the way Jon whispers, "Christ" and stares at Ben in the middle of his own undressing. Just stares. And then Ben _does_ have to be reminded to move, because he's just as trapped as Jon seems to be. That idea alone sends fresh, hot adrenaline coursing through them both.

Later, in Ben's memory, there will be hot, sweet segments of this day, bits he pulls off to recall, one at a time, the way you'd pick apart a sticky bun with your fingers. It is an emotional jumble that began anew in several places: now, it starts over again as Ben buries his face in Jon's neck, groaning softly, cradled in those long arms, tight against the body he's drawn and dreamed of for months. Ben kisses and tastes, slowly, hesitantly lowering his hand and cupping it over the erection that is all at once hot and hard and silky, intimidatingly thick and long.

Jon's sharp intake of breath and "Oh, God... oh, yeah...." are enough. Ben's hand, cool against the hot skin of Jon's cock, strokes lightly at first, in hesitant, conscious exploration. He is staring down Jon's lean body at his actions before he wraps his hand around it, drawing a shivery moan out of Jon.

Ben is lost in the sounds and the feel as he pets and strokes, amazed that Jon is clenching the blanket in his fists, and suddenly the teenager wants to know what would happen if Jon just... let go. Ben wants to know what he's unleashed. A vision of Djinn comes to him briefly, of Djinn in battle. His eyes are deep and smoky with unrestrained wildness, hair flying, lightsword flashing, cloak swirling about him with wind and energy, and Ben knows then that Jon would look just like that if given half a chance.

It makes him ache unbearably. He moves closer, letting out a yelped whimper when his cock brushes Jon's hip, and suddenly he's all burning nerves and desperation. "Please," he whispers, needing to come but frankly too green to ask for it. He is panting lightly, his face flushed, his lips bitten and red. His tongue slides over the lower one briefly before disappearing again.

Jon reaches down and begins to stroke Ben, asking softly, "What, Ben? What is it you want?"

Ben bucks forward into Jon's hand and cries out, overwhelmed. "Oh--oh, fuck--_that_\--" And he wraps his hand around Jon's cock firmly, all embarrassment sliding away in the middle of an intensely romantic desire to bring them off together. It's all so much, though, Jon's ragged breathing and thrusting, his obvious pleasure, and Ben--Ben is seventeen.

He comes abruptly, shuddering, another broken exclamation to God sliding out on a moan. Too soon, and his body is still humming with the electricity of it when he drops his head to Jon's shoulder, whispering, "Sorry."


	22. Chapter 22

It takes Jon, still a little high on the amazing sight that is Ben coming, a few seconds to realize that Ben is apologizing for doing just that. He pulls Ben close and kisses the young man's flushed face.

"Don't. Please don't ever apologize for getting off." He bends and captures Ben's mouth this time, kissing him long and thoroughly. Ben whimpers and Jon finds himself touched by the sheer vulnerability of the noise. He's still so amazed that Ben is not only _here_ in his bed, real and warm and full of sweet urgency, but that this boy who tries so hard to be cool is lowering his defenses.

Ben's hand is still gripped loosely around Jon's cock and the sensation is almost excruciating, but Jon isn't about to ask for more when he already has so much more than he ever expected. Then Ben is kissing Jon back and his grip tightens deliciously and his hand is moving and he's looking at Jon with no hint of the shyness Jon has come to expect.

"Is there ... what do *you* want?"

_Everything_ Jon thinks, his own greed surprising him. Ben's hand is moving more surely now, all earlier hesitancy gone.

Jon's voice has gone husky as he responds. "Oh that's good ... do it like you do it to yourself...." There's something powerfully erotic about this image -- the idea that Ben is giving Jon what he normally gives to no one but himself. Jon's head tilts back against his pillow and he can hear himself moaning. "Oh God...."

"Yeah ... oh yeah," Ben murmurs, his breath coming almost as quickly as Jon's does. He moves closer, one leg sliding over Jon's leg. Then he lowers his mouth over one of Jon's nipples, provoking a surprised shout.

Suddenly it's all too much ... Ben's hand, his tongue, the stunning impact of Ben's presence -- real and warm and smelling so good -- it all combines and Jon groans and thrust hard into Ben's hand as he falls over the edge.

When he can pay attention to his surroundings again, Jon realizes he's being kissed. Ben is making little grateful noises again as their mouths work together and it startles Jon After all, he is the one who should be -- _is_ \-- grateful here. He kisses Ben back, pulling him close and just enjoying the warm reality of him.

Finally, Ben pulls back and looks at Jon, clearly overwhelmed by the moment. Jon imagines that his own face echoes the wonder and slightly sweet happiness he sees in Ben's eyes.

"God ... thank you," Ben says softly.

Jon finally does what he's been dying to do ever since he truly noticed Ben, all those months ago; chuckling, he reaches up to brush the long front lock of red-gold hair out of Ben's eyes. "Yeah well ... thank you too." He can't help what he suspects is a goofy grin from breaking out over his face.

Ben, clearly touched by the gesture, sighs and leans into Jon's arms, snuggling close. Jon is amazed yet again, this time at how natural it feels to hold Ben in his arms --- how perfectly Ben fits there, his skin warm against Jon's.

Ben's voice is soft and thoughtful when he finally speaks. "This was just... going to happen, wasn't it? Sooner or later."

Jon looks at him, surprised to find that Ben has felt the same sense of inevitability that he has for the last few weeks.

"Yes," he says, ignoring the nervous little voice in the back of his head that asks: _What happens now?_

"Yes," he repeats a little more firmly. "I think it was."


	23. Chapter 23

Jon has a couple of tattoos, Ben noticed, though it wasn't something he was particularly taken by when the man was hard and wanting him. The boy wanted to ask about it the yin yang on Jon's bicep and the stylized Chinese dragon on the back of one shoulder, but now as they pad toward the bathroom, Ben is concerned that Jon will see him for what he is, so he says nothing. The last thing Ben wants to do is come off like he's new, mostly because Jon is treating him like an adult. They're going to _shower_ together, something Ben hasn't done ever with anyone. It's yet one more experience he's is eager to give himself up to.

When they're standing under the spray and the teacher bends his head, Ben kisses him openly, comfortable by now with the slide of Jon's lips against his. Well, perhaps _comfortable_ isn't quite right; it makes him go hot and full of butterflies.

Groaning, Jon raises his head, staring down with something like wonder. Ben is lost again, so abruptly that it doesn't quite register when Jon kneels in the slight shelter of the boy's body. Protected from the spray, the teacher takes Ben's cock into his mouth, drawing a yelp out of a startled throat.

"_Oh--!_" Ben's voice is small and loud at the same time. "Oh, God, Jon--" And he realizes what he's said and looks down to see something straight out of his fantasies staring back at him, mouth full, grinning with his eyes.

"Jon," Ben moans again, testing the name as he did what seems like eons ago, but now, Jon can hear, and he likes it. He moans around Ben's cock and sends Ben tilting backward, knees nearly buckling.

"Oh, God," the boy begins to chant, "oh, God, oh--God, oh--fuck, Jon, oh_God_\--" And he's nearly hyperventilating as the hot water pounds onto his back and Jon's tongue drives him screaming to the edge. He clutches at the shoulder with the dragon on it and his hand slips, even as Jon's own broad hands go to Ben's hips to support him.

"I'm--" Ben manages before coming, a small shriek belting itself out of a shocked throat. He shudders and slumps, grabbing the little washcloth bar just before careening backward against the wall.

"My God," Jon breathes, staring up at him. "That's got to be one of the hottest things...."

"Fuck," Ben squeaks.


	24. Chapter 24

Ben lies in the bed next to Jon, curled onto his side, too keyed-up to sleep. Dawn hasn't quite broken, but Jon himself only went to sleep an hour or so ago.

Ben would be twitchy if he hadn't sort of gone through Jon's room a little and managed to find a pencil with an eraser at the tip and a pad of lined paper embossed with what looked like an old grocery list. The top page had been torn off, so Ben just moved down three or four sheets and started drawing.

Stretched out on his back, Jon lies with one arm flung up over his head on the pillow, the other draped over his stomach. His hair is fanned out and tangled and there's a little crease between Jon's eyebrows. Ben wishes he had the nerve to reach over and sweep his fingertips over that crease, erasing it, but then he thinks that that's a ridiculous idea somehow. Jon's body is relaxed, though, whatever his dreams, all languid contours and warm, steady breathing beneath the sheet. Ben's trying so hard to capture that repose, but he's so used to drawing Djinn in a state of tension that it's very hard to catch his teacher in sleep.

Ben decides he wants to see more body and less linen, so, very carefully, he plucks up the upper hem of the sheet and peels it back, revealing the lean lines of stomach and hip and a tense, waiting erection. Whatever Jon's dreaming, anything decent enough to do _that_ is alright by Ben. He sketches, smudges a little (difficult, with it being a No. 2 pencil), and then freezes, seeing the erection twitch.

Mouth dry all of a sudden, he slips, makes an erasure, then rolls over a little, sweeping the crumbs onto the floor. This is harder than he thought it would be, but suddenly he needs to have a picture of Jon sleeping--something to remind himself that last night wasn't another one of his fantasies. He wonders if he'll get through the sketch without needing to touch and ruin the model.

When he turns back over and curls up around the notepad again, Jon is looking at him sleepily.

"Sorry," Ben whispers, and apologetically holds up the pad. "I just--I was seeing."

"Stop... apologizing," Jon mutters, smiling crookedly, and sweeps a long, warm arm out to catch Ben close to him. After a moment and a long look at the paper, he asks softly, "You were drawing me?"

Ben holds up the pad, now very clearly graced with Jon. Sleeping, breathing Jon, there on paper. "It's not very good."

Jon takes the pad, awed. "Someone needs to teach you what 'good' means. Jesus, how long did this take you?"

"About ten minutes." The idea that Jon likes it, in fact seems to love it, gives Ben a sharp sense of sweet, embarrassed pride, and he flushes a little.

"It's fantastic." Jon moves to kiss Ben, then catches himself, grinning. "Okay, I think... here, come on, I'm not going to kiss you with morning breath. I have an extra toothbrush, if you want." He rolls over, getting up to tug on a robe.

"Oh. Okay," Ben agrees quietly, looking around for his clothes. He isn't sure what to do now--in the past twenty-four hours he's run the gamut from depressed and terrified to ecstatic and orgasmic to strangely deflated and nervous. This is the fabled morning after, yet one more thing he's never experienced, and that makes Ben wonder what Jon could see in him. Ben knows nothing of these things; he isn't sophisticated enough to. He finds his shirt near the bed and takes it up, turning it right-side-out so he can put it on, and then something soft hits him in the back.

"You can wear that, if you like," Jon suggests, very casually, pointing to the T-shirt he tossed--a desperately bright rainbow-dyed shirt that looks like it has _teddy bears_ dancing on it. But Ben doesn't care; the idea of wearing something of Jon's just about throws him over the moon. That faint nervousness dissipates under Jon's warm stare as Ben tugs the shirt on over his head, grinning a little.

For Jon's part... well, he just knows he doesn't want to see Ben getting dressed right off. It makes him feel like Ben's about to leave... and he'd like, for a little while, to stave that off.


	25. Chapter 25

Jon can't help but laugh at the expression on Ben's face when he starts getting breakfast.

The night before, they had gnocci with pesto, a salad, and some rolls Jon had made the night before. He brought out some wine and afterwards they munched on cookies. The conversation was about neutral topics, the books they read, a spirited discussion on the newer martial arts movies stars, and Ben's art.

They didn't talk about anything complicated -- no discussion of where the relationship was going or how to proceed. Jon knows they'll have to but last night he couldn't bring himself to spoil the evening. His romantic streak -- which Xani always claimed was as wide as the grand Canyon -- wants this one weekend to be apart from all the harsh realities of the world they live in.

And then they went back to bed and Jon let himself explore his new lover more thoroughly than he had earlier. Ben was obviously torn between modesty and pride as Jon's large hands wandered over his pale skin, discovering sensitive places even Ben didn't know about. The young man squirmed delightfully as Jon's lips followed the paths his hands had already marked out.

"The beard," Ben said breathlessly, only his pride keeping him from giggling. "It tickles."

Jon looked up, letting his beard brush the back of Ben's knee. "So I've been told."

Ben grinned back at him and reached down to pull Jon up for a hug. Jon was more than happy to oblige, particularly when Ben rolled until Jon was on top of him. Several minutes of kissing and more stroking on Jon's part led to more of Ben's squirming, accompanied by that needy whimper Jon found himself liking more and more. The end result was a convulsive orgasm on Ben's part, something the young man was rather embarrassed about until Jon kissed him firmly.

"You have the advantage of youth," he added, grabbing for a couple of the towels he had put beside the bed earlier.

"Yeah well," Ben said as he cleaned himself up. "You have the advantage of skill." He paused and then tossed the towel aside. Smiling a little nervously, he pushed gently at Jon, silently urging him to lie back. "I should ...you know ... catch up."

It was Jon's turn to squirm as Ben's slim, clever hands moved over him. As others before him had discovered, Ben quickly found that one of the quickest ways to get his teacher to abandon any sort of dignity was to tickle his knees.

It was with a certain feeling of sadness that Jon realized that Ben didn't seem to know what to make of sex play that was fun. Remembering his own seriousness at Ben's age, Jon encouraged Ben to lighten up. They were both laughing over something when Ben quite suddenly, bent down and kissed the head of Jon's cock.

Jon's laugh quickly changed into a moan, one that was followed by a good many more just like it as Ben began exploring Jon's cock with his lips and tongue. Ben's curiosity and enthusiasm far overshadowed his lack of experience, and Jon made sure that Ben knew just how much he liked what his young lover was doing.

It was a sweet, wet and rather sloppy blowjob and Jon wouldn't have traded the moment for the best lover in the world. Ben kept darting little looks up, as if to make sure he was doing it right; it took very little time before Jon realized that Ben had never done this. He was careful to keep still, to clamp down hard on his body's instinctive urge to thrust hard into Ben's mouth.

As Ben's confidence grew, it became harder to hold back. Finally, when Ben slid his mouth down over the head of Jon's cock and started sucking, his other hand busy stroking the shaft, Jon groaned and managed to choke out a warning. Ben instinctively pulled away but his hand kept working Jon's cock, and the sight of his intense look of fascination was enough to finish Jon off.

When he had opened his eyes, Ben was staring him with an odd look on his face.

"What is it?"

"I did that. I ... I did that and you liked it."

"Very much," Jon replied.

Ben shrugged, a little embarrassed, and then looked down at his hand. Looking up, he caught Jon's eye, and brought his hand to his mouth and licked tentatively at one finger. "That's not that bad," Ben said thoughtfully. "Next time I'll swallow."

Now Jon blinks, coming back to the present and looking at Ben, who is standing in front of the refrigerator. He's wearing one of Jon's old Dead shirts and nothing else. It just skims the bottom of his ass, and Jon would be happy to spend the rest of the day inventing reasons for Ben to bend over.

_Down boy,_ he tells himself as he puts the box of cereal on the table.

"Froot loops?" Ben says. "I expected something like granola or something."

Before Jon can help it, it slips out. "I haven't had granola in the house since Xani went into the hospital."


	26. Chapter 26

Ben sits in class, a little hunched down in his chair. His jacket is as mangy-looking as always, and his shoes have a few more scribblings--but not too many--because he went to Algebra II today.

"Someone give me the five major difficulties inherent in a global economy," Dr. Quenton says, hair pulled properly back, hands covered in chalk, one hip of his slacks streaked from leaning on the board. His eyes have not met Ben's much beyond a strict, as-needed glance or two, but Ben knows.

Ben knows.

_"I haven't had granola in the house since Xani went into the hospital."_

Ben knows lots of things now. He knows Jon had a lover once, a lover who died of AIDS. He knows Jon has tested negative since then, and Ben knows he himself is very glad that the cursory, clumsy encounters he had--he can say that now; they _were_ clumsy--with the track star last year was always, always with a condom. Ben remembers the way Jon's voice sounded, that studious, resonant voice, thanking him for sharing a handful of crappy memories about a boy who didn't want to _be_ with a boy.

That voice, now, is lecturing on the possible fate of a global economy, subject to tsunamis and tectonic earthquakes because it is inextricably bound with small island nations on the Pacific Rim.

_"Who's Xani?"_

Ben stared hard at the tucan on the Froot Loops box as Jon made a huff of air--an impatient noise. A "why the fuck did I say that?" kind of noise. Ben met Jon's eyes again, hoping madly, _Not the guy in the pictures, not the pretty, sweet-looking, sophisticated--_

He didn't know what else to do but ask. And now he knows.

More than that, too, Ben realizes almost lazily as he replays portions of yesterday and the day before, plucking off the warm, sticky bits to hide the hard ones. He rememebers the slow, delicious grind in the hot tub, straddling Jon's lap and kissing him until they were both desperately hard again. Jon tasted of coffee and Froot Loops, and Ben grinned and told him so, and Jon... his eyes went warm and soft as he said, "Do you have any idea what your smile does to me?"

Ben hadn't, before. But he knows now.

But with the sweet comes the rest of it, too. Jon has a lot of leftover pain of his own, something Ben never considered. Ben, in his fatherless, overbearing-mother-filled life, never stopped to think there was pain other than his, and now--now he can't stop thinking about it, intermingled as it is with the sweet, sticky parts.

Dr. Quenton glances at him in his roving about the front of the classroom, speculating on the fate of the NYSE and NASDAQ should a hurricane wipe out Tokyo, and Ben realizes with a sharp, painful clarity that he is not lusting after a heroic, darkly shadowed character he draws out of his imagination. He is in love--completely, vastly in love with a man who suffers from monstrous pain and huge, gnawing grief.

Jon completely lost his calm when he saw that Ben's mother's car was, stunningly, in the driveway of the little shingled house they unfortunately shared. Ben stared, panicked, as Jon began to breathe too hard, white-knuckling the steering wheel, suddenly realizing with crushing impact the extent to which he'd jeopardized _everything_. Everything. And Ben realized he knew nothing about panic--hadn't known before, anyway. Now he knew. He was staring it in the face in Jon's little Fiat, eyes wide and voice breaking as he tried to touch Jon, pull him close, calm him down. He fumbled with the pill bottle in the glove box, shaking out a little tablet--Xanax, Jon said--that Jon put under his tongue.

It gives Ben a twinge of guilt now, and he realizes he shouldn't crunch up codeine like candy--it skews his sense of fairness somehow, to be taking pills he doesn't need when Jon would so much rather never take pills again.

Ben sat there as Jon shook, holding him, rocking because he didn't know what else to do.

_"It's alright, I swear, she can't see us from there, she doesn't know what your car looks like, she won't know--Jon, Jon, please... fuck, please, I swear, it's okay--"_

Ben babbled senselessly on, slowly lowering his voice until Jon realized he was clinging, fists full of Ben's ratty jacket, tears dampening the shoulder. Finally, finally, Jon let go, relaxing, calming himself. Ben asked uselessly if Jon was okay, if he could drive, if there was something Ben could do.

Jon shook his head but realized slowly there was a lot Ben had done already.

The boy looks at the professor now, raising his hand for the first time in weeks because none of these other morons seem to understand the importance of the Japanese market on the world economic stage.

"Xenocentrism is going to kill us," he says calmly, adding just the right note of petulance so the class fully understands how stupid they all are. "The American market isn't as important as it thinks it is."

"Prove it," Jon says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks and smudging them with more chalk.

And Ben does. And slowly, Jon realizes with sharp, painful clarity that he's not lusting after a pretty teenaged boy who happens to understand Japanese economics only because he reads the hentai that comes out of that market. He's in love. Completely, vastly in love with a complicated young adult, one who doesn't run away from anything important. Not dead lovers, not panic attacks, not his mother who disappears and then arrives again, off-cue and five days early. Jon once thought there was nothing here but physical attraction. He didn't know there could be anything real.

But he knows now.


	27. Chapter 27

The sky is a deep blue in this sketch. The coloring in this drawing is odd, primarily highlighted as it is with blues and reds. It is stark and full of foreboding, and the contrast between the cool of the sky and the heat of the blood on the ground is a little shocking. Mrs. Erickson shakes her head, wondering at this one. Benjamin McKenna's talent is plain, here, and is becoming more so with each passing drawing that he produces, whatever Mrs. Erickson's opinion is of the medium he's chosen to express himself with. He has an uncanny ability to convey moods--strong moods, mostly anger and fear.

There is no fear in this sketch, however. The boy stands on a hilltop, staring out over the horizon. He seems to be standing guard over the figure slumped on the ground near his feet--Djinn, apparently, as he's the only human ever to appear in the pictures other than monsters, although his face is obscured and his back turned. He looks beaten, if one can judge by the hunched-over posture alone. Yes--it's clear enough. Something has defeated Djinn, and he is turned away from the perspective view as though in shame. In the boy's eyes is an angry blaze, and the blood that was spilled onto the grass at his feet is reflected in his stare. He clutches Djinn's glowing sword tightly, tensely, and is staring at something off in the distance.

Whatever it is, it is far enough away that its features are not yet distinguished. It is huge, though, hulking over trees and surreal, almost organic-looking buildings. It has claws. That is the only thing she can make out: it is a huge, faceless, clawed beast. It is blue like the sky, almost camoflaged against the horizon.

Looking at the sketch, Mrs. Erickson tries a moment longer to make out its meaning, then quietly files the paper into a special folder she's labeled "Quenton-McKenna."


	28. Chapter 28

Ben didn't exactly _lie_ to Dr. Quenton. Dr. Quenton never asked any questions like, "Did your mother suddenly decide to send you to a psychiatrist on advice of her Valium-vodka-cocktail-sucking friends because you disappeared for a while?" No, of course he wouldn't ask that, he is much kinder than that. But Ben isn't. He feels terrible for not telling, though, because he knows it's important. He just...

_I couldn't stand to see that look in his eyes,_ Ben reminds himself. _That fear. That panic._ Jon would hate the idea that Ben ended up here, with a mild-looking, toupeed shrink preparing a psychological profile on him, and he would hate even worse the idea that it was somehow related to the weekend. So when he and Jon talked today, Ben just left out the part about this afternoon's meeting with the very expensive head doctor.

Ben looks around a little, trying not to look like he's looking around. The place is so plain and sparse that he wonders if they really meant to put that swooping, graceful black vase right there; everything else implies crayons and soft paper. It's the kind of room Hannibal Lecter would be allowed in. Ben thinks, however, that a lot of damage could be wreaked with the two books on the desk. The vase is incongruous with everything, although he does think it would make a cool ion cannon for fighting off the pale blue monster. He takes up a felt pen off the coffee table and copies the lines of the vase onto his right palm.

"Do you like that?" the very cool, very neutral male doctor asks him--he introduced himself about two minutes ago as Dr. Franke--and while he's not holding a pad and paper now, Ben knows one is forthcoming.

"It's okay."

The doctor nods. "Do you know why your mom wanted us to talk today?"

Ben smiles, his eyes hard and bitter with seventeen-year-old sarcasm. "I'm a freak?"

Having obviously heard this and more on many occasions, the doctor smiles placidly and folds his hands. He looks faintly like the freaky dude in _The Usual Suspects_, and Ben wonders, giggling in the back of his mind, if this is _the_ Kaiser Soze.

"No, no, Benjamin, you're not a freak. We each deal with things in ways that are sometimes unproductive, and what we need to figure out now is how to help you find a productive way to deal with yours."

Sitting back, Ben folds his arms over his chest, watching Kaiser watch him. "Uh huh. Isn't my mom supposed to be here? Are you going to put me on something that makes me all sleepy and weird to keep me from... _acting out_ or something?"

Unsurprisingly, the doctor pulls out a small slip of paper and scribbles on it. "Your mother has already signed a release. I hope you'll trust my judgment as she does. This is a prescription for Zoloft. It won't make you sleepy and--"

"I'm not taking it." Ben's words are firm and his eyes are angry now. He's had enough of the neutral office and the neutral voice and the completely overwhelming _calm_ of this place.

"Benjamin, you have to understand. This is not a narcotic, if that's what concerns you. It's not going to make you sleepy, it's just going to even out some patterns in the chemistry--"

"I'm not taking it. I'm fine. I didn't run away from home, I just went to a friend's house for the weekend. Put in your notes that my mom left me with a note saying she'd be gone all week. Put in there too that she didn't call me Friday night or leave me bus money. I was hooking up rides to class all week." Ben hates the lie, small as it is, and he hates referring to the weekend as though he were over at a buddy's house playing GameCube for two days. But he watches smugly as the good doctor's well-prepared expression falters a little.

Notes go down into the inevitable file folder, and the doctor nods. "Be that as it may--and rest assured, this will get covered when I speak to your mother tomorrow afternoon--I would like you to take this and get it filled. Take one at dinner time every night. Just one. They're small."

Ben sighs, knowing his best option here is to ignore the condescending, ridiculous blather and go along. He gets up and scoops the paper up, shoving it carelessly into his jacket pocket. He hovers there a moment as Franke drones on a bit about how their first real meeting will run about an hour and a half, how he's sorry there isn't more time now, how he'd really like to get to know Ben better. Ben makes mental blah-blah-blah noises, likening his new doctor to the faintly creepy adults in the Peanuts cartoons, the ones who never speak unless someone's in trouble. Absently, as Franke wraps it up, Ben takes up the pencil cup--actually a coffee mug, plain and white, cafeteria-style--and, holding the pencils in place firmly, upends it.

"What are you doing?" Franke asks, blinking.

"Kobayashi," Ben mutters, and grins brilliantly at the doctor's blank look. He knows he's secured himself a highlighted note in the cracked nut file, and doesn't care.


	29. Chapter 29

Dr. Quenton's mind is not on the handful of extra credit projects he should be grading or the mortadella and provolone on sourdough that's sitting on his desk. His tea from earlier has gone cold and his Coke is leaving a ring of moisture on his desk.

It's Thursday, but Jon is remembering Monday. He was proud of himself in class that morning, calmly discussing the effect on the NYSE and NASDAQ of the hypothetical destruction of Tokyo as if he hadn't spent part of the weekend making love with the young man in the front row. And he was proud of Ben as well; the boy slouched in his seat with his usual air of nonchalant disinterest, as if he hadn't guided and held Jon through the worst of a panic attack Sunday afternoon.

As if they hadn't both come to separate but equal realizations that the weekend had been about much more than satisfying curiosity and slaking mutual lust.

It was only Monday afternoon, during Jon's free period, while he and Ben worked grading quizzes, that they talked. Fortunately Ben initiated the conversation; there is, after all, no proper etiquette for asking your TA if he still wants to spend time in your bed. But Ben, in a slightly incoherent way that Jon found terribly endearing, mumbled something about the gnocci being good and the Pink Floyd he'd seen in Jon's CD collection. The boy brought it around to a hesitant request to see Jon again and Jon worked to hide his relief.

But Jon knew it was far more complicated than that and he found himself once more wishing he could inflict great bodily harm on Lorna McKenna. Once more he found himself biting back angry comments as Ben all too casually dismissed his mother's odd behavior.

The way Ben tells it the woman would hardly notice, let alone mind, if Ben is gone all day Saturday, even though she apparently raised holy hell when she realized Ben had been at a "friend's place" over the weekend. It was only Ben once more pleading with Jon not to get involved that kept the teacher from calling the authorities.

_Only five months._ Jon tells himself now. _He'll be 18 in five months and then things can change._ He doesn't know how things will change, but with Ben graduating as well, things can only get better.

But Jon isn't really thinking about that either. He's remembering hot water splashing on his face and the way Ben all but squeaked "fuck" after he came in Jon's mouth. He's remembering those clever artist's hands and the way they brought him to a shuddering climax. He's remembering the way his t-shirt rode up, exposing Ben's ass as the young man pored over Jon's CD rack. He's remembering....

The sound of a locker door banging out in the hall brings him back to himself and he frowns down at his lap in irritation. _You're going to get me in trouble if you keep reminding us of things like that at work, for Christ's sake._

In an effort to get some work done, he pulls his folder of graded quizzes toward him, intending to record the grades in his book. He manages to record two scores when....

_Breathe, damnit!_

The nameless boy has his back against a tree, one leg wrapped around the hip of the tall, longhaired warrior who is fucking him hard. Both boy and man have almost identical expressions of rapture on their faces, and, of course both of them are instantly recognizable as Ben and Jon.

The erection Jon had managed to think away is back in force and he buries his head in one hand as he quickly closes the folder. Although he should be rehearsing the conversation he needs to have with Ben about taking more care with his artwork, all Jon Quenton can think about is a tie dyed t-shirt that was just three inches too short.

It's going to be a long time until Saturday.

A **very** long time.


	30. Chapter 30

Ben stares at the creamy yellow tablet, only slightly the worse for wear for having been held under his tongue and then spit out. Sertraline hydrochloride is the chemical name, and of course he's already looked in his mother's PDR for the chemical makeup of it. He'll be drawing it on his shoe in algebra come Monday, he's sure. He's pretty sure Sertraline needs to be the name of the planet his manga boy is from.

As soon as his mother heads off to her bingo game or whatever it is she does on Saturdays that involves white grain alcohol and chirping at her other prospective Eastern Star "womenfriends," he's out of here. The mallinites that always convince her to do things like sell Yankee candles or interior decorating crap are welcome to her, he thinks. He has places to be.

The first order of business, the second his mother's gone, is to head to Oak Park. He has to tell Jon about this Zoloft development and Kaiser Soze's sudden appearance in his life. He knows it's crucial, but he keeps replaying the conversation in his head and it's just not flying right. He keeps seeing Jon panicking again, and that's not even the worst part, because he knows--beyond having done it once--he can help Jon over that. The worst part is he keeps thinking Jon will call the whole thing off.

Ben stopped himself in front of the mirror in the bathroom today. He stopped and really looked, seeing his floppy red-brown hair and the moles on his face and the pissed-off look in his eyes. He wondered what Jon saw in all of that. He didn't see any heat there, or beauty, he just saw himself. Just a high-schooler who doesn't get along with his mother and can't be bothered to go to Algebra II because he feels very strongly that he doesn't need it--a high-schooler like any other. There's no reason Jon _shouldn't_ call the whole thing off.

He tosses the wet Zoloft in the trash and resolves again to tell Jon about it tomorrow. This whole antidepressant incident might be the thing that sends Jon away, but Ben knows somehow he can't hide it.

It hurts. He flops backward onto his bed, staring up at the blanket he's tacked up over the mural because he doesn't want to hear his mother screeching about it. He wants to say it will all be alright somehow, that Jon will take care of him, but he's sadly disillusioned about things like that. Curling away from the mural, which is strangely the only way he can sleep anymore, Ben hugs his pillow and wishes.


	31. Chapter 31

It's Friday evening and Jon is filled with manic energy. Therefore, he's cleaning. So far he's swept the entire house, dusted in the living room, tidied up the kitchen, cleaned the bathroom and done two loads of laundry. Now he's working on the bedroom, moving the piles of books back into the bookshelves in the study, and making the bed. In what he thinks of as a fit of self-indulgence, he's chosen a set of dark green sheets, strictly for the aesthetic value of seeing Ben naked on them.

The bed made, he sits down and contemplates the nightstand. It's a jumble of books -- one textbook, Eco's latest --Baudolino \-- and four manga Ben has recommended. Jon is amused to find that he's enjoying Vampire Hunter D more than the novel, but then Baudolino is a far cry from Foucault's Pendulum, and the manga are great fun.

The nightstand is also covered by several wrappers from miniature Snickers, and as Jon gathers them up and tosses them he wonders why the taste better in the smaller format. Xani used to complain about the candy wrappers, but then Xani's sweet tooth demanded Jelly Bellys. Jon still remembers waking up with the occasional green apple or sizzling cinnamon bean squashed under his back and he finds himself wondering if Ben eats in bed, and if so, what.

For the first time that sort of thought doesn't make him feel like a traitor to Xani's memory, and he's not quite sure what to make of that. David, his therapist, would tell him that he was moving on and that it's all to the good, but of course David doesn't know about Ben. David can't know about Ben.

Jon has a brief moment of panic. The lover whose arrival he's so eagerly anticipating is a minor. It doesn't matter that Ben is far more mature than most of the adults Jon knows; it doesn't matter that in less than six months Ben will be an adult. What matters is that what Jon is doing with Ben is illegal. He looks at the ashtray containing the pipe and lighter, at the brass apothecary jar that serves as a stash jar and shakes his head. Screwing one of his students is a little different than smoking dope. He breathes carefully, staving off the panic for now.

_It is what it is and it's too late now to do anything about it. If I'd said "no" before ... before this was something more than just sex, that would be one thing._

His eyes fall on the picture that ended up in his stack of quizzes and then on the bottle of Probe he picked up optimistically this afternoon. He's not sure if they're ready for this next step, but he wants to be prepared if they are. He remembers his first time with a laugh; to this day the smell of Vaseline Intensive Care hand lotion takes him back to his dorm room and Anthony.

_Anthony,_ he reminds himself, _was older than Ben is. Hell, **I** was older than Ben is._

He sighs and tidies up the bedside table, tucking the ashtray and pipe in the lower drawer and the Probe in the upper drawer with the condoms. _Towels,_ he thinks. _Need some towels in here._

Several minutes later, he looks around. The room is neater than it has been in months; he can see the surface of the bedside table. There are fresh candles on the votive holders scattered on bookcases and the dresser, and the blue and cream colored Persian carpet has been vacuumed.

Now all the room needs is Ben.


	32. Chapter 32

Ben grits his teeth, painting furiously. The robotic squid creature has now grown spikes on a few of its tentacles and is waving them threateningly at the boy. There is an angry pilot in one of the ships, Ben knows, though he hasn't got that far yet in his painting. The angry pilot, Ben's decided, is going to lop the head right off the squid. It will never show up on the painting, and Ben actually _likes_ the squid, but for right now, it makes him feel better.

"You aren't allowed to go out," Ben mimicks his mother in an ugly, snotty-woman tone, and twists his hand angrily in a gesture that copies the quick locking of a door. He gets a smudge of green on a part of the starry night sky and swipes at it, frustrated, with the pad of his thumb. He's been up several times, testing the door and its brand-new hardware, knowing she can't keep him in here forever. If he presses his ear to the door, he can hear her snoring in the living room. She's loud, and for the first time in his life, he's glad.

"I an _so_ outta here," he says aloud, staring at the bound, writhing boy in the painting.

But he has already stayed a good deal longer than he meant to. When he looks at the clock and sees the time, his light eyes go wide with shock and fear--Jon's due to leave the park any minute now.

"Shit," Ben whispers, frantically getting down from the bed, going to the window, then rushing back to drop the cover over his still-wet mural and cap the acrylics. He shoves the tubes of paint into a bin and shoves it under his bed, then goes to the window again, rushing to clear the sill of figures and crap he wishes right now he didn't own. It takes him a moment to pop the screen out of the window--she had it adjusted last time he did this, but the only difference is before, he could do it by hand, and now, he has to use the butter knife he keeps under the back corner of his desk just for crap like this.

Getting out the window and down the street is nothing, but he bounces on his toes impatiently for the bus to arrive. He hates this waiting; when he finally gets on, he wishes it went faster, didn't have as many stops, didn't have to slow down for every stupid little thing. "Come on, come on," he chants, nearly frantic with the idea that Jon has left the park by now and Ben can't remember how to get to his house--and he has no idea what bus route to take.

Finally, finally, the bus stops at Oak Park, and he is already at the front, darting out the door the instant it folds open. He dashes up the hill, praying--

Jon is there, sitting on the bench near where he normally works out. Nearly overwhelmed with relief, Ben has to stop, folding himself over and taking a moment to catch his breath. When he straightens and looks up, Jon is moving toward him quickly, a pained sort of gladness clear on his face.

"Hey," Ben greets, still breathing too quickly from nerves and sprinting. He is, all of a sudden, very aware of the paint on his hands and his jeans, and desperately self-conscious about his hair, his breath, his dew-dampened sneakers. "I--sorry, I thought I was too late."

"God, Ben," Jon sighs, and Ben is glad and puzzled at the relief in his eyes. "I thought...." He trails off, smiling a little because there's nothing that can properly express how afraid he was that it was suddenly, immediately over, for whatever reasons that would occur. "Never mind. I'm glad you're here."


	33. Chapter 33

Ben watches Jon move in the Giants t-shirt and the sweats. He's peeled off his jacket and draped it onto the back of a chair, and he's even taken off his shoes, as Jon did when they entered. He feels that sense of settling in again, that sense of being home. Really, he can't believe he's even here. Jon is obviously happy to putter with a massive tray of meat and cheese, two kinds of bread, organic mayonnaise (Ben didn't know till just now there _was_ such a thing), and olives--three kinds of olives. He is chattering, obviously "up," as he says, and seems to be so terribly glad that Ben is there that it hangs between them, making Ben want to go to him and kiss him right there with their lunch still half-assembled.

The idea shakes him. He's done it again: laid out everything, all of it, his mother locking him up, his sneaking out, the pills, Kaiser Soze. Suddenly he looks back on the conversation, which, initially, nearly threw Jon into another attack, and he feels a hot flash of guilt and embarrassment.

_What the fuck were you thinking?_ he wonders, smiling a little stiffly as Jon talks about how pleased he was to find _these_ olives, how great they are, just wait. _It's just more proof that you're a fucked-up kid, dumping all that on him like there's something he's supposed to _do_ about it._

But he knows why he told. He knows he can't lie to Jon, even if it means losing him. He knows in the bottom of his heart that he _does_ want Jon to be able to do something about all this. He wants it, but he doesn't believe in it. Jon doesn't need some stupid, doped-up high school kid wishing for things bigger than him.

He wishes more than anything he'd been able to say the words that occurred to him after the brief emotional storm was over. Ben keeps the smile plastered to his face until Jon notices it isn't real.

"What's wrong?" Jon asks, wiping his hands on a towel and looking at Ben carefully.

"Nothing," Ben says immediately, looking away. But he looks back again, sighing. "Can... would it be okay if I--" And he leans up, cupping one hand behind Jon's neck and tugging him down, kissing him with soft, warm hesitancy. He doesn't mean to press close, but there he is, one hand pulling Jon to him and the other wound in the front of the Giants shirt as the kiss deepens and grows. Jon tastes like chamomile and something else, and he smells faintly of some herb or another, but Ben doesn't know what--a soft, green flavor, something he recognizes as Jon. It's one more thing for Ben to marvel at, and worry about. Ben tastes like mouthwash, he knows.

Jon moans, startled, into the kiss, before pulling back and smiling a little. "You taste good," he murmurs, and takes Ben's mouth more urgently.

Having lost track of what he does feel, let alone what he should, Ben gives up and just kisses.


	34. Chapter 34

Ben tastes like mouthwash -- something cinnamon -- with the faintest hint of cigarettes underneath. It turns Jon on much more than he expected, although his arousal could have something to do with the way Ben's hand grips Jon's shirt tightly, pulling the older man towards him as the kiss deepens. Or maybe it's the sound of those noises Ben makes, the not-quite whimpers that he breathes into the kiss.

Jon wraps his arms around Ben in silent apology. An apology for the almost panic attack at the park, an apology for the time wasted getting lunch together, an apology for not being able to help Ben more. This, right now, is all he can give Ben. This closeness, this warmth, this ... feeling.

A feeling Jon is afraid to put into words, and so he tries to make the kisses as intense as he can, while his hands range over Ben's back and down to his ass. It's too new, this feeling; it would be too much of a burden for a young man already heavily burdened by life.

_He doesn't deserve my neediness piled on to everything else._

And so Jon kisses Ben with all the passion and skill he can muster, great deep kisses that finally leave both of them gasping for breath.

"Missed you," Jon whispers against Ben's lips when he can finally speak again. "Thought about this all week...."

Ben's eyes light up, and that faint worry line he's too young to have disappears as he gins. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Jon is grinning, too, as he moves in for another kiss. It's so good to make Ben smile like this, so good to feel those warm, smooth lips part against his, so damn good to kiss someone like this. Ben whimpers again and Jon hears himself answer the sound with a moan from deep in his throat. His hand tightens just a bit, gripping a firm ass cheek as the other tangles itself gently in Ben's hair.

Ben pulls back from the kiss to just look at Jon, and Jon smiles at him. The young man's face is flushed and his lips swollen ever so slightly

"I'm not really all that hungry," Jon says, moving the one hand until it's brushing that maddening lock of hair out of Ben's eyes.

"Lunch," Ben replies eagerly, "can wait."


	35. Chapter 35

Ben pulls Jon to him again, kissing him hard. He presses close; it's too good not to. Jon is warm and firm and--yes--hard, and his hand is tightening on Ben's ass unexpectedly. What it means, if anything, Ben doesn't know, but he likes it. It feels good, _way_ better than he'd have thought something so simple could.

"Yeah," he gasps, tipping his head back. "Want that." He doesn't even know what it is he wants yet; he hasn't got that much worked out in his head. But he's sure. He's sure.

Jon gasps, too. "Bedroom." He tries to kiss and walk at the same time, clutching Ben to him. Ben nearly trips and falls and is stopped only by Jon's grip on his arm. The boy laughs a little, trying not to. When they reach the bedroom door, no longer a shock to Ben but a welcome, comfortable sight, Ben stops.

"Fuck... Jon," he breathes, and looks at his teacher intently before kissing him again. The moan Jon gives out resonates through Ben with a delicious sense of satisfaction. He's here again, and Jon wants him, and that's so good Ben can't even think about it.

Sliding his hands up inside Jon's shirt over his torso, Ben gives one of those long, deep looks that unknots Jon every time. "Please..." Ben whispers, running his hands around to Jon's back and up over his shoulders. He doesn't know what to do, but Jon knows that by now, and Ben feels safe. He's afraid of how safe he feels, sometimes, but not now.

Jon shivers at Ben's touch as well as the one wide-open word. He's barely whispering against Ben's mouth, "What? Tell me what you want."

Looking at Jon, then looking away, Ben is not sure what he should say. He knows what he wants, but he's as afraid of it as he is hungry for it. "I... I think I want...." He puts his forehead on Jon's chest and tries to get out of the question. "I don't know."

"Ben." Jon is concerned that Ben won't look up now, and a flash of fear grips him as it has before that it could be over, right now, just like this in the bedroom doorway. "Ben, what's wrong?"

But Ben presses close and hugs Jon hard. "Nothing... nothing, I just... I'm scared, because I want... I want--" and he pauses a long time, then lowers his voice to almost nothing. "I want you... inside me."


	36. Chapter 36

Jon is realizing that those almost whimpers Ben utters are even more arousing when the young man is stretched out on top of him, naked. Ben's skin is smooth, too warm and alive to be compared with silk or satin, and his hair tickles as he buries his face in Jon's neck. He squirms as Jon's hand roam over ever inch of him that they can reach, and Jon has to force himself to keep this slow, to remember that this is Ben's first time.

He asked, of course and Ben admitted it, but even as Jon worried and hesitated, Ben became more insistent. Yes, he understood what was involved; yes, he would ask Jon to stop if it get to be too much; yes, yes, yes and would Jon just please....

Jon is deeply touched by the measure of trust implicit in Ben's almost casual assumption that the older man would back off if necessary. Part of it, Jon knows, is youthful confidence, but part of it has to be that he does know that Jon won't force this if Ben suddenly changes his mind.

Jon's hands return again and again to the smooth, firm curves of Ben's ass. Each time, Ben makes more of those noises and finally, Jon grabs for the bottle of lube. He fumbles a bit with it, and is obscurely glad that Ben is too busy exploring Jon's neck with his mouth to notice the moment of clumsiness.

As he takes his time teasing Ben gently with one slicked-up finger, Jon realizes that this is nothing so prosaic like remembering how to ride a bicycle. It's more like being in a dream and remembering how to fly, and, trusting that memory, stepping off the edge of a cliff.

"Is ... is that all right?"

Ben looks almost surprised as he replies. "Yeah. Oh yeah."

"Oh good," Jon replies, relieved. "It gets better."

Ben bites his lip, eyes closed, breath shaky, as Jon finally slides the finger inside. His soft "ohhhh" still has that note of surprise, but there's pleasure there as well.

Jon smiles. It seems he still can fly.


	37. Chapter 37

Ben already knew Jon had great hands. He already understood that Jon would take his time, go slowly, use lube, lots of lube. But Ben isn't really thinking about how careful and slow and... well, _loving_ Jon was with his hands. He's not concerning himself with how patient Jon was and how long it seemed Jon was willing to wait while he worked his fingers inside Ben carefully... so carefully....

Because Ben's actually a little preoccupied right now. His head is tipped down. His hair has fallen around his face and is straggling into his eyes a little, but he doesn't care about that, either. He's biting his lip and breathing hard; he's got one hand braced on Jon's chest, and the other is reached under him, holding Jon's cock steady. He's guiding Jon into him.

For a fleeting second, Ben remembers the boy who decided he wasn't going to let himself be fucked anymore just about the time Ben really made up his mind about wanting to get fucked himself. Trackboy always blew out a breath when Ben pushed in. Ben used to love the noises he made, and now, now, he's making them. Not those noises, exactly, but similar ones, and Jon is staring up at him with an awed, almost painfully turned-on expression.

Ben didn't really realize how big Jon was. He knew; he's wrapped his hand around Jon's cock and had it in his mouth, but that's nothing. Now there is a glorious explosion of understanding as he presses himself down over Jon, slicked with lube and covered with latex and...

_"Oh, God...."_

He blows out a breath and shifts a little and sinks down further, and Jon has placed his hands deliberately lightly on Ben's hips. Ben stares down at those hands, and all the perverted manga he's read and the porn he's found on the internet in the corner computer at the library fades into uselessness in the back of his head. He slides down another inch, maybe more, and a tight, restrained whimper gets out of his throat, not sounding much like him at all. It's good, and scary, and _oh, fuck,_ he just keeps coming back to how good it is. His mouth is open and he closes his eyes, imagining how this looks from Jon's perspective.

"Careful..." Jon manages to half-grunt. "Slowly, Ben, slowly... relax if you can...." But then when Ben does manage to relax and finish sliding down over him, Jon seems to forget about giving advice, and basically just gives himself over to losing his mind. "_Oh, God...._"

He drops one hand to the bed and clenches the sheets in a hard fist.

And that's _still_ nothing; Ben thinks over and over and over that it can't get any better--until he starts to move. It is slow, and delicious, and yes, it burns, but....

"_Oh, God...._" Ben moans again, and moves faster. Suddenly it hits him, a desperate need to say it--that thing that crossed his mind in the park. He hasn't even thought it loudly enough to register it yet, but it's halfway out of his mouth, "Jon--I--" when Jon wraps a broad, warm hand around Ben's cock and starts to stroke.

A strangled, sharp noise escapes Ben as he comes, abruptly and hard. He tenses and shudders, gripping Jon's waist. He's still breathing too hard, still staring down, glazed and recovering, when Jon thrusts up into him, coming with a low, restrained moan.

Ben had many expectations about how this would happen, but one thing he didn't expect was how completely, utterly beautiful it would feel. Overwhelmed, he tips his face up to the ceiling, trying not to cry.

"Oh... God."


	38. Chapter 38

Jon is a gay man and he loves sex, and pictures of men having sex, and movies of men having sex, and stories about men having sex. So, of course, he's read a lot of gay porn. A whole lot of it. And one thing comes to mind as he stares up at Ben, who is looking rather like a mystic in an ecstatic trance as he sinks slowly onto Jon's cock. The writers always, **always**, use the words "tight" and "hot" (when they're not misspelling "come") to describe what it feels like to penetrate someone.

And make no mistake, Ben is hot around him, feverishly so. And he's tight, almost, but not quite, painfully tight.

Yet, as good, as incredible as the physical sensations around Jon's cock are, they're nothing compared to a very different heat, a very different tightness. One that seems almost physical, as if it were centered in his chest, but is something far more complex.

Ben's eyes close and his mouth opens slightly, and Jon needs to remember that this is Ben's first time. He needs to remember to advise and hold back and be in control of himself. But how can he be in control of himself when Ben looks like that, says "Oh god" in just that way?

Maintaining control becomes even more difficult when Ben begins to move. Jon is fighting so hard not to just grab those slim hips and give Ben the fucking that the manga boy gets from Djinn. It's only by reminding himself again and again that right now this is all about trust, and gentleness, and something new and barely formed between them.

Jon feels it again -- that other heat, that other tight feeling -- as Ben moves. Those huge green eyes have opened now and Ben is staring right at Jon. The look is unmistakable and a faint thread of panic hits Jon. His chest aching from it all, Jon brings up his hand to stroke Ben off before the boy can finish his sentence.

"Jon--I--"

_No,_ Jon thinks several minutes later when he has Ben wrapped up, tangled in Jon's arms and legs. _No, I can't let him say it, because then I would say it._

He rubs surreptitiously at his chest, even though he knows that won't make that feeling stop.

_Oh God, what happens to us now?_


	39. Chapter 39

This time, Jon and Ben decided mutually that Jon's car probably didn't need to be hanging around Ben's part of the suburbs, so Jon just tucked bus money into Ben's hand and kissed him.

It was a nice, slow, longing kiss. It was almost good enough to make up for the fact that Ben knew Jon knew what he wanted to say, and Jon wasn't letting him say it. Ben wasn't sure what to think about that, and he would worry but the kiss made him feel better. Now, he can't really think about anything for too long before his mind darts off to something else. Part of it is that kiss. Part of it is just the whole experience. He's still reeling, still trying to register it all, and failing--pleasantly, but failing.

The apple-doll woman with the queer daughter smiled at him on the bus, and he holds onto that smile as he stares at the cellphone his mother almost threw at him when he'd walked in the door. He remembers that the woman on the bus seemed happy for him in a quiet, restrained way, a way that either implied they share a secret.

They share a secret, alright. She knows what bus route he takes, and she knows, probably, that Ben's as queer as the guys he sketches. This woman on the bus with the garden-sunny face and the bright blue muumuu and the Birkenstock clogs knows more about him than his own mother, and that's comforting and frightening in a different way than falling in love has been. It's disturbing.

He stares at the cellphone, sitting in the kitchen as the ringing of his mother's screeling dies around him. If she couldn't control him, she was at least going to be able to reach him--_As if, _ Ben snorted mentally--and God help him if he didn't answer that phone when it rang. Ben puzzles quietly now, putting the phone down and staring at the wall instead. She's gone, now, off to a late bingo party or whateverthehell she does with her strangely-alotted time, and it crosses his mind that she's more or less given him permission to go--as long as he leaves the cellphone on, and answers it when she calls. He considers going back to Jon's, seriously considers it, then decides he shouldn't push his luck.

_Something's up with her,_ he thinks. _She didn't bitch enough. There's a catch. _

But his mother's yelling doesn't bother him this time, and it's just that much better that she left almost as soon as he got home. He'd rather be alone now. He can draw. He can work on his mural. He can consider this brand-new awareness in him that comes with sexual awakening, though he doesn't think of it in such lofty terms. His attention span is shot and his mind is going in ten different directions, but he brings it back around to the one thing he really wants to think about.

Ben knows just enough about his teacher in bed to understand Jon was barely holding it together. _ I did that,_ Ben thinks, and grins uncontrollably. Images flash through his mind--Jon pressing up into him, coming--mouth open, eyes closed. Jon staring at him afterward, warm and relaxed, just lying there looking sated. Something hung between them, not as comfortable as the smell of sex, something nervous. Ben suspects it has something to do with the words that almost got away from him, but now he's glad they didn't. He thinks maybe Jon wasn't ready for them, and while it stings a little, Ben would rather keep them to himself forever than actually _bother_ Jon with them. He doesn't think about that for too long, though; his attention drifts somewhere else again.

He shifts in his seat, feeling the ache, and smiles.


	40. Chapter 40

Jon is whistling slightly as he sips his coffee while sorting through his inbox in the teacher's lounge. He isn't even aware of the tune until Ms. Summers, the AP English teacher, looks over at him.

"Well, I'd say that was a completely appropriate musical sentiment, but I don't think I've ever heard that particularl tune whistled quite so cheerfully."

He's confused for a moment and then realizes he's been whistling "I Don't Like Mondays." He grins at her unrepentantly. "It's the last thing I heard before I got out of the car. They play it every Monday."

She smiles. "I think I prefer 'Manic Monday' myself. It's one of those generation gap things." She sips from her mug of tea and cocks her head. "You seem excessively pleased with life."

Jon grins again. Cassandra Summers is the only other out teacher in the school, although given the size of the faculty, Jon seriously doubts she's the only other queer teacher at Reagan High.

"Had a good weekend," he explains without further elaboration. "How was yours?"

She rolls her eyes. "Exhausting. We took the kids up to the snow on Saturday and then Becky decided we just _had_ clean out the rain gutters, plant roses, and wax the cars on Sunday."

Jon shakes his head. "You girls and your independence. Would you like the name of my lawn service and the two car washes in town who recycle their gray water?"

She chuckles. "I would love to turn it all over to someone else, but you know Becky...." She stands and rolls her shoulders before grabbing her satchel. "Well I'm glad to see you smile. He must have been really good."

As his jaw drops and he's about to demand how she knows and why she hasn't ripped him a new one, she smirks. "You boys," she says imitating his earlier tone, "and your promiscuity."

He only breathes after she's left the room. _Idiot!_ he tells himself. _If you keep overreacting like that, someone is going to notice._

As he gathers his own things, he's hit by a sudden flash of memory: Ben's full lower lip caught between the boy's white teeth as he closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and keeps moving down on Jon's cock.

He is completely oblivious to the stares he gets as he moves down the hall, cheerfully whistling "Manic Monday," in between sips of latte.


	41. Chapter 41

Ben smiles. The drawing slides across the coffee-table-cum-separator between the PhD and himself, and Franke-cum-Kaiser takes it up, staring at it.

"Well. This one here, is that you?" He holds up the sketch.

It is of Djinn and the boy, advancing on the huge air-colored monster together. The determination in the picture is clear, in spite of the fact that Djinn is hanging back, blood streaking through his leggings from one hip. Franke--_Kaiser,_ Ben corrects himself, snickering in the back of his mind--points to the boy and taps his index finger on the paper.

"Yeah, that's me," Ben nods. He is feeling bolstered by sex, by love, by the sheer, glowing pride that comes of having given himself to someone who really, truly wanted him. He wants to sink himself into daydreams of Jon's cool classroom glances--or more correctly, of daydreams of what lies behind those glances. But there's Franke, studying the picture, looking for all the world like he's late for a racquetball game or something, the way he keeps checking his watch.

"And this here, what's this?" Kaiser taps the monster.

"An _oni_," the teenager spits, in his best "Well, _duh_" voice.

"And who's this?" Ben watches as, in near slow-motion, the man who looks like Kaiser Soze points to the other human in the picture.

"One of my teachers," the boy hears himself saying, and immediately a flash of miserably hot regret strikes him.

_Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck--_

"Really," Franke remarks, sounding not the least bit interested as he jots something down. "Why this teacher?"

Ben forces himself calm. He doesn't know how he's going to manage this before the words come out, but he has to, _he has to_ because everything depends on this answer. Everything hangs on whether or not he can pull his head out of his ass long enough to overcome a split second of pride over drawings that should never, ever see the light of day. He gives a shrug, slumps down against the back of the sofa a little more, and plucks at a loose string on his jacket. "I see him almost every day. I do TA work for him. I work with him in class practically more than I see my mother."

That makes Franke look up. "Does that concern you?"

Ben weighs his answer, immeasurably relieved that Franke's moving on. This is just the way to get the conversation off the track it was on, the track he nearly slipped--big time.

"Mom's busy," he says, biting his lip. "She's got the Eastern Stars or something. We don't get along too great."

It is the kind of answer that Ben hoped would make Franke forget about the drawing. Sure enough, the doctor passes it back across the table, where Ben, hoping he looks cool and uncaring, tucks it away again.

"Would it... make you happy if you were comfortable enough to draw your mother in his place?"

Ben blurts out laughter before he can stop himself. "No way," he snorts. "She's one of the monsters."


	42. Chapter 42

Watching Ben take up his glass, Jon isn't sure if the boy's ever had wine before. They're in the hot tub, the big oak barrel tub that Xani used to complain was so "Serial." Jon used to shrug and explain that most of the fiberglass tubs were too shallow; what was the point of a hot tub if half of your body stuck out?

Ben likes the hot tub; he likes sitting in it after they've taken the edge off on Saturday mornings. _Between the blowjob and the sex,_ Jon thinks with a smile. But now it's Wednesday night, and it's cold outside, cold enough that their skin steams whenever they reach for anther spring roll, or small piroshki, or chunk of melon wrapped in proscuitto.

Ben called earlier; his mom, he explained, was out all night. Jon wonders what the hell she's doing at night, but when her absence has benefits like this, he's glad of it. After all, her relationship with Ben is already so fucked up that a few more nights aren't going to make a difference.

Jon feels cynical at times. He has enough self-awareness to know that he uses that cynicism the same way he uses aimless chatter, to hide all the things that can't be said. _Not until June, after Ben's birthday and graduation,_ he reminds himself for the thousandth time. He doesn't really know what's going to happen once Ben is eighteen and out of school. Ben will have his trust fund and Jon really wants to try to steer him into art school of some kind. But a good art school means the City and living there will eat up Ben's fifty grand in no time.

Not if you help him. Is it wrong, he wonders, to consider paying for his current lover's education with the money his dead lover left to him? Wrong or not, he has a feeling Xani would have loved the irony of Jon sending this boy to school --and probably the same art institute Xani attended -- on Xani's money. What was his phrase? _Yeah the irony's so rich it makes my liver hurt._

He blinks to return to the present, and leans back looking at Ben. "God you look good," he breathes. Ben bites his lip and puts his wineglass on the deck, looking at Jon with that faintly hesitant expression he gets. Jon is getting used to that look, and he hopes that someday Ben will learn that he doesn't always have to ask for what he wants. But that's all in the future, and Jon would rather think about now. He holds his arms out and Ben moves into them, straddling Jon's lap and leaning up to kiss him.

_Now,_ Jon thinks s his hands move up and down Ben's smooth slick back, _Is a very nice place._


	43. Chapter 43

Ben's hesitancy is a little misplaced tonight; certainly he's felt more comfortable at other times. He nearly wanted to reach across Jon's desk yesterday and grab him and kiss him. But tonight, he realizes--for the dozenth time in the three weeks since he showed Kaiser Soze the drawing--that he hasn't told Jon about said drawing, or about said counseling session. He doesn't want to, either, and that bothers him, but there's nothing Jon can do, and it isn't as though telling would do anything but make Ben's guilt feel briefly better until Jon has an attack.

So when Jon asks him if he can tolerate the cool air outside the hot tub, Ben nods and gets on the deck. He pushes thoughts of the cellphone that he's bound to and stray drawings and the fact that Djinn has never resurfaced since that day in Kaiser's office, and focuses on the fact that Jon's licking his cock, teasing.

It doesn't take much.

Part of it is that Jon's words before he started focusing his tongue in other directions were, "See, I had this dream..."

Ben can only lean back onto his hands and stare, and then after a while he brings one hand up and puts it into Jon's hair, stroking without really knowing what to do with it yet. It takes him a couple of hitched-in breaths to actually ask, "You--you _dreamed_ about me?"

Jon can, of course, only nod and moan affirmatively around Ben's cock by now, and it makes Ben drop back to his elbows and tip his face up. He's breathing hard already, and he has no way of knowing what Jon has in store.

"Turn over," Jon murmurs, and then, when Ben does, Jon tugs his hips back over the edge of the water-slick deck. It crosses Ben's mind that Jon might be getting ready to fuck him, right here, right out in the open. But before he can really draw any kind of rational conclusion, Jon is dropping soft kisses over his skin. Kisses and compliments.

"God, you have... the most amazing... ass... I'm so glad... at school... that you wear loose pants... never get anything... done in class otherwise...."

Later, he will remember that Jon was moving very slowly, waiting, giving him time to back out. For the time being, it seems to Ben that Jon is kissing him and whispering one minute and then suddenly, very suddenly, he is licking. _There._

"Oh, _God,_ Jon," Ben groans, startled and red. He clutches at the surface of the deck uselessly, and even though he's made an art form of trying to look cool and failing tonight, this is the end-all-be-all. It isn't long before Jon's all but fucking him with his tongue, and Ben's groaning and shoving himself backwards, trying to get purchase on the wet wood. Finally, he just shoves a hand under himself.

"Oh fuck, fuck, Jon, I'm--it's--I'm gonna--oh _God_\--" And he gets his hand wrapped around his cock and pumps his hips once or maybe twice before he comes, thrashing and nearly hyperventilating.

And when Jon turns him over and licks him clean--including his hand--Ben can only laugh for the sheer, unadulterated rush of it. The words bubble to his throat again, and he stops them. Only just.


	44. Chapter 44

Jon's heart is pounding in his chest as he stars at the young man --- the boy -- in his bed. He can't help but notice the slender shoulders and narrow hips that don't yet match the promise of Ben's height or the size of his hands. He remembers how, less than 20 minutes ago, he looked at those shoulders from behind, clutched those hips with his own large hands as he buried his cock over and over again in the boy's body.

The boy. Ben is 17. What Jon is doing with him is illegal. Ben is Jon's student. What Jon is doing with him is unethical. Ben is a boy and Jon is a man and there are those who would -- will -- say that what Jon is doing with him is immoral.

It's going to cost Jon his job. _Ben_ is going to cost Jon his job.

Jon can't get enough air; he _can't_ breathe. Adrenaline is surging through his body, keying the ancient need to flee or fight, but Jon is not facing a mammoth or saber toothed tiger, and so neither flight not fight are an option. And so his world has narrowed to the harsh sound of his own breath, the trip-hammer of his heart, the knots in his stomach, the shaky, hushed sound of his own voice as he questions Ben and the faint, almost whisper of Ben's voice as the boy answers those questions.

Yes, it really was only one of the fighting pictures of Djinn and the boy that Ben showed his shrink. Yes, the man wondered why Ben was using of his teachers as the model for his hero. No, of course Ben didn't tell him why, just that he sees more of that teacher at school than he sees of his mother at home.

"I'm sorry," Ben's quiet, desperate voice says. "Please, don't ... don't.... He didn't say anything, and it's been like three weeks, and he forgot all about it. He just kept asking me about my mother. That's what they're supposed to ask about, right?" Ben tries to laugh but Jon's panic doesn't allow him to notice either the attempt or the failure.

"Has he ... he asked you about me ... since then?" Jon's panic also doesn't allow him to notice how incredibly selfish his own questions are.

Ben's answer is swift. "No ... no, there's ... he never has. He never has, Jon, he just fucking ... looks at his watch and...."

Ben turns away and it seems like forever before Jon notices that the boy's thin shoulders are shaking. The realization that Ben is sitting there -- in Jon's bed -- naked, defenseless, and afraid, is enough to shock Jon out of his panic. Or at least it's a start.

Struggling for control of his voice --and his breath and his heart and his stomach -- Jon tries to reassure Ben. "'No ... it's ... it's OK Ben. Oh please ... please, don't cry ... I'm sorry ... I got scared. Oh Ben, please...." He reaches out hesitantly, afraid that Ben will pull away, afraid that he has panicked too many times and that Ben no longer wants to have anything to do with him.

In less than a second, Ben is in his arms, clinging to him with a strength that speaks more of wiry muscle than boyish slenderness. "I was scared too ... I knew, I knew as soon as I said it it was wrong, and I ... I didn't want to tell you. I wasn't going to, but I can't ... I can't hide from you."

More than a little touched by Ben's desire to be honest, Jon holds Ben in his arms, kissing his hair. "I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. This should be fun all the time. It should be about sleeping in on Saturdays and going out to a late breakfast at the Fox and Goose, or the Tower Café, or going into the City because we feel like it." He ducks his head down and kisses the tears away from Ben's face as he realizes he's speaking as much to himself as to his lover. "It shouldn't be about hiding and being afraid."

Ben's face twists with a degree of anger as he cries. "I just ... I just want ... _fuck_... I can't _do_ this, I can't...." He shakes his head and pulls back to look at Jon, who suddenly understands that Ben's anger is not directed at him but at Ben himself. Ben's voice is earnest as he qualifies his statement. "I don't mean I _can't_; I will ... I want to be here. I just... it's not _fair._."

And strangely enough, for all the apparent immaturity of those last words, Jon sees the young man again. Ben ... Ben loves him. He knows this now as much as he knows that he loves Ben. Ben has to struggle with his own guilt and fear, and yet he's willing to continue that struggle to be with Jon. He's willing to be honest when it would have been easier to never tell Jon about the slip up with Kaiser Soze.

While a small, nervous part of Jon reminds him that Ben is hardly risking what Jon is risking, a greater, more emotional part doesn't care. All that part sees is that the boy -- the person -- Jon loves is hurting and is afraid, and yet, is willing to fight all of that to be with Jon.

"No it's not, Ben. It's ... I wish you didn't ... hadn't ... learned that so early."

Ben blinks and looks up at him nervously. "Are you ... mad at me?"

Jon shakes his head and leans in to brush a kiss across Ben's lips. "No, not at all." He looks away for a moment. "I'm ... well I'm sorry about the panic thing there."

"You ... you did better than I did," Ben replies, blinking away the last of his tears and even laughing a little.

Jon sighs and reaches out to take Ben's hand. He places it against his own throat, letting Ben feel the still rapid thunder of his pulse. "Actually ... not so much." He takes the hand and kisses the palm gently and looks into Ben's eyes. "No, it's not fair and it's not easy, but ... I knew the risk and I still know the risk and ... I want you to be here too."

Obviously at a loss for words, Ben leans in and kisses Jon. Not on the mouth or the cheek, but right where Jon had placed Ben's hand. And under the soft caress of those warm lips, Jon's pulse slows and his panic retreats even further.


	45. Chapter 45

The risk. Jon said, "I knew the risk," and Ben has to think about it now; it's staring him in the face: he _creates_ the risk. He is the thing that could cost Jon everything, and he's not being careful enough. He's not being careful at all.

He presses his lips to that place on Jon's throat, feeling the pulse racing under his mouth, and the guilt is nearly overpowering. Just so he doesn't have to meet Jon's eyes or answer questions or make any more confessions, he keeps his mouth firmly on that pulse point, kissing softly.

He knows suddenly with a miserable, aching clarity that he should walk away. Jon doesn't need this, Jon needs someone stable and adult, someone who can help him through these things without causing more of them. Jon needs someone who isn't jealous of the ghost of Xani. Mostly, Jon needs a lover who doesn't have a bedtime, for Christ's sake.

Ben presses himself close, stroking Jon's hair and murmuring platitudes, trying to calm Jon without looking at him. He knows if he makes eye contact, he'll cave and confess again. If Ben admits that he thinks the man would be better off without the boy, then there are only two possible responses: "Oh my God, why?" and "You're right."

"Oh my God, why?" would end up in, "Because I love you and I can't stand doing this to you." And that would be bad.

"You're right" would be worse, in more ways than Ben wants to count.

So he stays where he is, quiet for a while. He never thought being in love would hurt so much, and permeating that fog of pain, shockingly, is the dim awareness that Ben is aroused again. He shifts his hips away, trying not to seem like that's what he's doing, because he's sure wanting sex right now is entirely wrong.

"So," he finally sighs. "Did you make those egg roll things, or...?" It's stupid, he knows. A stupid, stupid topic, and it's shit for camoflage, but it's the best he can do.

Jon starts idly playing with Ben's hair. "Yeah," he says quietly, and his voice is a low rumble against Ben's ear. "But I cheat and use pre-made skins. I like to do all of it myself but some things are just not worth the bother. It's like phyllo dough. I've made my own, but it's a huge pain in the ass--and the stuff you can buy is actually very good. Or pasta. For the most part, I don't make my own. Gnocci, yes, because I have yet to find any that's anywhere close to homemade..."

As Jon chatters, Ben realizes with a harder ache than before that even if he wants to, he can't walk away. He loves Jon, and now as Jon starts talking about flour all over the kitchen and the somehow comforting fact that yes, even he keeps boxed macaroni and cheese around, Ben knows he's lost. He's so lost, and as good as this feels, it's terrifying. He decides he's not going to subject Jon to any more of his fear. What they have is too good, and Ben can't bring himself to think about ending it--even knowing it's the right thing to do.


	46. Chapter 46

Jon realizes he's been babbling about food for the last several minutes. He finds himself wondering why Ben asked, what had his lover so nervous that he felt a need to invite Jon's chatter.

_What, like that little panic attack wasn't enough?_

Jon would pursue it, but he's tired and a little wrung out. The act of talking about something as commonplace as food and cooking has helped calm him, although not as much as Ben's closeness and quiet support. _He's good for me,_ Jon thinks, tightening his hold on Ben. _I only wish I were better for him._ But that thought too is tiring, and Jon has something on his mind that they do need to talk about.

"So," he says, a little hesitantly. "I wanted to talk to you about the holiday break."

Ben's reply is equally hesitant. "Yeah?"

"Well Beth and Eric and the kids will be here from the 21st through the 27th," Jon says plunging right in. "And of course I have no idea what your plans are. But ... well I was hoping that I'd see you at least a couple of times. I'd like to spend New Year's Eve with you. "

Ben goes up on one elbow and looks down at Jon, a shy smile on his face. "Really?"

"Of course. If ... well, if it's possible." Jon isn't about to be so blunt or tactless as to say, "provided your Mom is out getting blasted again," although both he and Ben know that's exactly what he means.

Ben's eyes light up, although he tries to maintain his all-important layer of cool. "OK ... I'll ... I'll have to see. I mean, she usually goes to parties and stuff, so..."

"Oh good. I was hoping she would. I'd really like you to be here. It's ... well it's important to me." He's walking on that knife's edge again. He wants to tell Ben that he hasn't been with anyone on New Year's Eve since Xani died, and that to be able to face another year with someone he loves is more than just "important."

But he can't. Not while he has nothing to offer Ben but these snatched moments of time, an evening here, a Saturday afternoon there. And always there's that worry in the back of his mind. What if what Jon is reading as love in Ben is really just a teen-aged crush and a flight of experimentation? Jon is terrified to think that there might come a time when Ben looks at his graying lover and asks himself, "What was I thinking?"

So, as Ben slides back down next to him and runs a hand up Jon's neck, Jon takes comfort in the touch and holds back on the words that could complicate things even more than they already are.

"I'm--I'm important to you?"

"Yes," Jon replies truthfully. "Very."

Ben snuggles closer, his semi-hard cock brushing Jon's thigh, and Jon once more loses himself in his lover's need. Ben is here now, and that is good. Ben will be here for New Year, and that will be good.

For now, that will just have to suffice.


	47. Chapter 47

Ben sits in Spanish, drawing on the bottom of his jeans, one ratty hem turned down so that he can sketch in a reasonable interpretation of Pink Floyd's _The Wall_ CD cover. They're conjugating the trickier verbs today in class, but he's only halfway paying attention. He's thinking about Jon, of course, and about how Jon wants to spend New Year's Eve with him.

He can't get over the idea, for some reason. It's too big, too much to consider, and yet... it's exactly what Ben wants.

Jon has risked his career for Ben for weeks now. He's let Ben hold him when the attacks come. Jon's excitement over Saturdays and his thrill at the unexpected Wednesday have been apparent. Ben thinks they may have seen each other at their worst, at least so far, but still Jon is comfortable enough to have stopped asking questions like, "Is this okay? You'll tell me to stop if you don't want it?"

"If you look at the patterns," Mrs. Castillo is telling the class softly, pointing at the whiteboard and providing a nice vocal backdrop for Ben's thoughts, "here and here in the tenses, you'll notice there's not as much memorization as you might think."

Ben's looking at patterns alright, but they don't have anything to do with Spanish. He remembers the way Jon looked at him after the New Year's Eve talk, a warm, deep look, and the way Jon keeps brushing the hair away from Ben's forehead, and things like the fact that Jon could walk away, in fact probably should have by now, and hasn't. The Spanish teacher is covering past perfect when it strikes Ben that Jon has been cooking for him once a week for something like two and a half months now. That's a long time, he realizes.

"I want you to work on these over the break," Mrs. Castillo is saying over the bell, standing on her toes to be noticed in the throng passing out the door. "Verb charts are due back sixth of January when we start up again."

Ben shoves his papers, untouched, into his notebook. Thinking about Jon, and about the thirty-first of December and the first of January rather than the sixth, he heads to algebra.

It dawns slowly. It takes him all day, but then when he gets on his at the end of the afternoon and stands next to the lemon-vanilla lady he's come to like so well, Ben realizes that Jon must love him.

He smiles so suddenly and so brightly that the lady looks up from her orange plastic seat and smiles, too.


	48. Chapter 48

Ben's been a Matchbox 20 fan ever since Rob Thomas kissed Carlos Santana on national television.

Matchbox 20 aren't exactly Godsmack, but they aren't the smarmy pop crap everyone tags as "alternative," either. Ben turns it up, then goes back to his sketch. From a plate at the edge of his desk, he plucks up a green apple wedge. He sticks it into his mouth, then promptly forgets about it, hanging onto it absently with his teeth as the boy takes shape in charcoal.

Ben knows his subjects so well by now that he almost doesn't think about them anymore, unless he really has nothing else to think about. But he's got this new CD in, so he thinks about that instead. He has to wonder about that kiss Rob and Carlos exchanged. He can't help it, even if it does stem from a kind of nameless, fannish wishful thinking rather than than intellectual curiosity. He has never understood why he _wants_ Rob Thomas to be gay; it's not like it would change the music or really impact Ben in any way. But he wanted that kiss to be real even at fifteen, so he made a point of buying all their CDs so he could listen for clues. He notices Thomas sings a lot about beautiful girls, but then again, Melissa Etheridge was sexually ambiguous before she came completely out.

Djinn is crouched behind the boy, positioned in such a way that the forcefulness of his thrusts comes across even in stillness. Ben animates those thrusts in his head briefly, watching the boy be driven forward. He's just working on the expression on the boy's face--that same one that can be read either as pained or unnaturally pleasured--when the song changes.

Ben's still deciding what to think of this one. He bites into his apple slice, finally, and sets the other half on the plate again, accidentally smudging it with charcoal.

The song has this bluesy church choir thing happening in the background, which is okay, but not as rich and deep as when U2 put it in _Rattle and Hum_'s version of "Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For." Even then, it didn't quite work for Ben--and he loved _Rattle and Hum_, although Jon thinks it's pointless old rehashing. They bickered about that once, good-naturedly. There's very little music they agree on, anyway; that sort of comes with the territory.

When Ben first heard this song, and he's not quite sure of the title yet, he figured there was enough outside influence on the CD to chalk this up as a bit of posing. He can hear Santana's cultural twang in it, and a leaning toward a style that sounds like Elton John's in one song, and something that might even be country. This CD is all over the map, musically speaking, and Ben just dismissed the choral thing as a gimmick, like steel guitar in a rock song.

But now, he's kind of curious about what message Thomas and Serletic are conveying with the evangelical choir, so he turns it up again. The liner notes are useless anyway. He listens, then skips the track backward and listens again, somewhere between stunned and hurt that Thomas would cut so quickly to where Ben's discomfort lies. Two lines stick, and they are, of course, in the chorus:

_ Be my savior  
And I'll be your downfall...._

Ben goes back again, and listens, and then he scribbles the notes down on the edge of his parchment with the charcoal:

_ Now I'm back on my own  
Hear my feet, they're made of stone  
Man, I make you go where I go  
Well hell, you, can I take you home.... _

"_I'll be your downfall,_" Ben whispers. Ben doesn't sing, but this...this.... His chest aches because of it. He hurts. The song is so profound he wants to share it with Jon, but then he's afraid, once more, that Jon would think it was right. He looks at the window; his mother has long since stopped trying to lock him in; the cellphone seems to have replaced the lock, although she never calls it. He speculates she's trying to fit some bare legal minimum of what guardianship means, but at this point, he can't figure out why she cares enough to do that. She's at a party right now, getting drunk or hopped up on someone else's uppers so she can come home and take a sleeping pill.

Ben looks longingly at the windowframe, yearning for Jon, and then he puts his forehead on the charcoal sketch and sighs. He breathes the air of his drawing for a moment, wondering if Beth has arrived yet, and, in spite of everything, wishing New Year's Eve would get here.


	49. Chapter 49

Beth Quenton-Reed lets the bathrobe fall to the deck, and then shivers in the short time it takes to step into the hot tub. Jon has the heat cranked up and she laughs as he settles in next to her.

"Quenton soup," she says, accepting the pipe he holds out and sucking in a long drag with practiced ease.

He smiles and the skin around his eyes crinkles and she finally has to ask the question that's been nagging at her ever since she first saw him at the airport yesterday. "Who is he?"

The smile vanishes and her big brother reaches silently for the pipe. "Long story," he says laconically.

Beth frowns at him as he takes a hit and hands the pipe back. "Don't even try claming up on me."

He says nothing for a long time as the pipe goes back and forth, but Beth is fine with it. There are brownies, and chips and onion dip close at hand, Paul Simon is going to Graceland on the stereo, and Eric is out doing some last minute shopping with Miranda and Helen. She knows that, for all of his aimless chatter, getting Jon to talk about something serious takes time.

_And,_ she thinks as the pipe comes back to her, _the weed will help._

"Shit," Jon finally says, his voice a little strained. "I've been trying to think of a way to sugarcoat it, because I keep looking at Randy and thinking...." His voice trails off.

In spite of the weed and the two glasses of wine earlier, Beth is no fool. "Christ, Jon. It's that kid. Your TA. You talk about him all the time in your letters and ... fuck ... are you **out** of your goddamned mind? How old is he anyway?"

Jon laughs, an almost painfully bitter sound. "Older than Randy."

"Well I should fucking hope so! Christ Jon, even legal age would be a little young, don't you think?"

"Think? I think about it all the damn time. And then ... Beth it's like ... he just fits."

In spite of the almost mournful look Jon is giving her, Beth snorts. "Yeah and is he gonna 'fit' so well when you're locked up for molestation?" She takes an angry drag off the pipe, welcoming the hot, harsh smoke.

"He'll be eighteen in April, and he'll graduate in June."

"Oh well, then it's all right."

"Look, spare me your fucking sarcasm, OK? He's probably more mature than I am, for God's sake. He's had a shitty life and he needs someone to...."

"Oh," Beth says softly into the silence as Jon's voice trails off once more. "Oh shit. You're in love with this kid, aren't you?"

"Ben," Jon says and yes, Beth can hear it clearly now, that same tone of voice she only ever heard when Jon talked about Xani. "His name is Ben. He's an artist, and a really bright kid, and no one takes him at all seriously. Jesus, Beth, his mom ... fuck, I did a better job with you, and I wasn't your actual parent."

"Uh, Jon, that's not the point. Lousy parent or not, this woman is going to pitch a bitch if she finds out that her kid is getting it up the ass from his Econ. teacher."

"Beth!"

"Oh please, we're sitting naked in your hot tub smoking dope. Don't get all prudish on me now, Thick."

In spite of the tension of the situation, the old nickname makes Jon smile. And again, it's a real smile, something Beth hasn't seen in a very long time. Ever since Xani died, there's been a hint of sadness in the way Jon's smiles don't quite reach his eyes, even when he's cooking or watching his nieces hang ornaments on the Christmas tree.

"Is he ... Jon, is he just in it for the fun? Are you going to get hurt here? Or worse? Is he going to change hi mind and call the cops on you?"

"Ben won't hurt me," Jon replies, his voice sure and steady. "He ... Beth, I wish you could meet him. He's not at all like Xani, but ... there's this intensity ... this depth ... and oh, God, is he gorgeous."

Beth leans back, letting her head rest against the edge of the tub. In spite of the light pollution, she can see Orion's belt. As always the sight takes her back to a time when their father took them camping and Jon told them the myths that went with the constellations in the night sky. Several years later, her father told her that Jon had studied for weeks before the trip to be able to tell those stories, just because Beth was on a mythology kick at the time.

Other things like that come to mind. Jon going to a restaurant to get a recipe for the macaroni and cheese his little sister loved, or giving up his Saturday afternoons with friends in order to help Beth sell candy with her Camp Fire Girl group. Now that she has kids of her own, Beth has come to realize that your average teenager doesn't do that sort of thing.

She absently reaches for a brownie and it hits her again. Jon hates brownies. He's gone on about it at length to her. _If you want cake, make cake. If you want fudge, make fudge. Brownies are for people who can't make up their minds._

And yet, every time she visits there are brownies, homemade brownies. She wonders briefly what it would be like to have that sort of attention shown to you by a lover, and then thinks about the Chick-o-Stix she saw in the cupboard. _He used to keep Skittles and microwave popcorn for Xani's bad moods,_ she thinks. _He really is in love here._

She knows they'll talk more about this kid -- Ben -- and that she'll continue to worry about this situation. It's dangerous is so many ways, and she's terrified that it will end badly. It doesn't matter that Jon's thought this all through, and is willing to take the risk, it's still so huge and so frightening on so many levels that Beth's not sure what to make of it.

"I don't want no part of this crazy love/I don't want no part of your love," Paul Simon sings, and Beth silently agrees.

But want it or not, Beth is going to be supportive and sympathetic while Jon talks to her about this keg of dynamite he's sitting on.

Because he's her big brother-- her Jonathick -- and his smile reaches his eyes again.


	50. Chapter 50

The lady isn't on the bus today, of course. Not too many people are on this one at all. They will be, later, when the partying starts, but for now, it's too early.

Ben doesn't really know if he's expected this early; it's just around three. Mentally, he amends: _Most people don't start partying till later--my mom, though..._

Christmas was the same. Christmas Eve, it was apparently her turn to host the festivities. Mostly he stayed in his room, trying not to hear them squawk and listen to The Beatles, whom he's pretty sure he'll hate forever after this.

There were half a dozen women, all of them cooing and frothing at him appropriately in turn until they got distracted by the gin and tonics or the Tom and Jerrys or the Captain Morgan's and Cokes. His mother mentioned she'd bring his dinner into his room, if he wanted, and he wondered why she was being so solicitous. He almost wished he had a Valium to chew up, or even a Darvocet.

Almost. He promised Jon he would stop that, and he has. He's also stopped filching vodka and whiskey from the liquor cabinet. He's also, for reasons he can't discern, stopped scraping together the remnants of bus and lunch money to buy quarter ounces and Zig Zag paper. He hasn't done that in a while, anyway, and it wasn't like it helped. For the time he was high, it did, but beyond that it was all like the rest of his life: more shit to worry about.

He arrives at Jon's place after the small walk from the bus stop to the door. Directly in spite of his Christmas, he's grinning the bright, brilliant grin that only Jon sees.

It's all spectactular, even the little routine they've established between themselves. It gives Ben a measure of comfort to know what he's going to expect when he comes: the sweet, slow greeting kisses, the harder, more insistent ones that come after they talk about food, and maybe consider laying some out. Then there's the gorgeous oral sex that files the edge down. Sometimes Jon lets Ben reciprocate, but sometimes he doesn't. It depends on how Jon's feeling, and Ben's learned to understand that if Jon doesn't come, it's not a slight, and it's not Ben's fault. It just is. Tonight, Jon came, hard, and Ben smiled a lot about it.

Now they're sitting on the couch. There's a fire lit, small, but more for light than anything else, like the candles scattered around. Ben's discovered Jon's quite a romantic, and while it's bothered him before in the girls he's dated briefly, Ben finds he doesn't mind it a bit anymore.

Ben is in one of Jon's blue chambray work shirts, pressed crisply at the sleeves but a little rumpled in front; it hangs to mid-thigh on him. He likes the way it smells. It smells light blue, though he couldn't possibly explain where he gets that except the color of the shirt. Jon's in a multi-plaid robe, old and a little worn but so soft that Ben likes touching it.

They're sharing the couch, as always, with too much food: Jon bought fresh croissants and something like four different kinds of cheese, and he's arranged all of this in ultra-thin slices on a tray with olives, romaine lettuce, gourmet mustard, and some kind of pastrami Ben has never tried. Even after Jon's long done eating, Ben is still picking at the sliced meat, grinning as Jon catches him eating still.

Ben even felt comfortable enough to show Jon the Polaroids he took of his mural--the boy is finished, now, and he's the best thing Ben has ever done--and he did quite a bit more smiling as Jon praised it and some of the shots of Ben's Djinn/boy charcoals that never, ever leave Ben's room. Ben was afraid to show those, but Jon is thrilled for him, proud of his art, and impressed. That means more than Ben will ever be able to get across, and all he can do is fidget a little, pushing the hair back off his forehead the way Jon always does, smiling.

After a while, Jon leans over and murmurs, smiling, "Speaking of art... look under the tree."

Grinning, Ben goes. "What? Is that for me?"

"Read the tag," Jon grins back, and Ben looks at him, caught up once again in that smile that he sees more and more lately. He knows what's happening between them; he feels it with everything in him, and he knows he'll find a time soon to talk about it. He's damn near bursting with it, and he doesn't know how he's held it in so long, but New Year's Eve seems perfect for it.

So Ben reads the tag, which says _To Ben --from Jon._

"What is it?" he asks softly, and tears into it. When he sees... well, when he sees, his face lights up so completely that he glows with it.

"Ohh... Jon..."

Because it's the _Tetsuwan Atom_ art cel. The one Ben thought he'd lost the chance to buy completely; the money would be in in April, but he was sure Dad was going to flake out on the Christmas money because the trust matures in four months, so he gave up on it. He went back by one day, but it was gone, and Ben more or less let his disappointment go.

He remembers mentioning it once, just once. And Jon hadn't really said anything because, as Ben has slowly come to discover, Jon doesn't know as much about manga and anime as the teenager once thought. Ben had talked about it for a little while, explaining the history of Astro Boy until he was pretty sure Jon was bored of it, and then they'd kissed again, and Ben no longer cared about a missing art cel.

Now he's staring at it. Holding one of the original cels from the anime itself, and he can see the matte paint under the glossy celluloid, backed carefully with tissue. He'll have to get it under glass soon, but that's perfect. It's all so perfect he doesn't even know what to say.

"Thank you," he manages.

Jon's smile is almost shy. "It's the one you wanted, right?"

Ben nods almost hurriedly, an understatement, and goes to Jon, kissing him with pleased eagerness. Jon returns it happily, thrilled. When the kiss breaks, he pulls back a little to brush that hair off Ben's forehead tenderly.

"I like seeing you happy."

Unable to stop grinning, Ben sets the art cel aside and throws his arms around Jon's neck, hugging him hard. "I'm happy," he whispers. It crosses his mind again to say that he loves Jon, but he holds it. Jon's arms tighten around him, and that's enough. He kisses Jon again, one hand playing in Jon's hair, just for something to touch. He's kneeling up on the couch now, trying to get closer, feel more.

Jon slides his hands down Ben's back, skims them over his ass, and then pushes them up again, this time under the shirt and against Ben's skin. Ben moans softly, breaking the kiss to tuck his face into Jon's neck, warm and soft.

"Yeah," he sighs, shifting closer.

And into Ben's ear, Jon murmurs gently, "I ... want to give you something else."

Ben's a kid, and his eagerness is plain. "Yeah?"

Jon pulls back, cupping Ben's cheek in one big, warm hand. "Well--it's for me, too." He leans forward until his forehead is against Ben's, and speaks very softly.

"I want you to fuck me."


	51. Chapter 51

Ben crouches over Jon, staring in something that might be wonder. Jon seems so unconcerned that Ben's never done it this way, looking into someone's eyes. He works his hand carefully and is surprised it's so much easier, so much better, watching reactions rather than trying to hurry because the guy in front of him is impatient, trying to like it without seeming like he does. Now, Ben is pleased to give the kind of tenderness he never could before. He's thrilled that Jon wants it from him, just like this.

He could barely contain the thrill when Jon lowered the lights and encouraged Ben to the floor with him, right in front of the fireplace. There was that sense of romance again, especially when Jon pulled towels, lube, and condoms out from under the couch, displaying how much he'd planned ahead.

That early awed feeling strikes Ben again. _He wants me,_ he thinks, a little amazed, as he stares down at Jon's face, full of breathless pleasure. Ben tells him he's beautiful, but Jon isn't the kind to believe that sort of thing. It's alright; Ben believes enough for both of them.

Moaning softly, twisting a little, Jon whispers, "Ben...please. I'm ready now."

Ben shivers as he enters Jon carefully, gritting his teeth against the profound pleasure, and then he's moving, and Jon is cursing softly at how good it is, how long it's been. A strange sense of privilege comes to Ben; he knows there's a lot that Jon hasn't done since Xani, and this is one of those things. The realization wrenches a groan from him. All the trite phrases that get used to describe this moment are useless now. He stares, bracing himself on his elbows and bending his head to kiss Jon's chest. Everything in the world narrows down to Jon under him, arching, clutching at Ben's back and then his ass, pulling, and warm skin, and the sounds of their movement and soft moans. It's all firelight and candles, and in this moment, when nothing else exists, Ben wishes he could stay here forever. It's another trite idea, but so true. There's so much he wants, and if he could just hang onto this, this right here, he has it all.

Ben lets out a small cry as the pleasure builds hugely. It's always so sudden for him, not a downhill slide but a sudden drop. But even if it crossed his mind to stave it off, this is too big for him to try. Jon reaches between them for his cock and strokes, and they come at once, both of them. Ben's heart is racing as Jon pulls him down, holding him tightly. He nuzzles the hollow of Jon's shoulder.

"I didn't get you anything." It's all he can think of to say; everything feels so huge.

"You just gave me something I haven't had in...six years," Jon points out, smiling.

The moment fades, and Ben finds himself in the middle of a shot of disbelief that this beautiful, smart, amazing man wants this with him. "I'm glad," he remembers to whisper, after a long moment.

"Me too." Jon sounds sleepy and sated with Ben still inside him. "So glad it was you."

Ben falls in love again, hard.


	52. Chapter 52

Jon doesn't want their time to be over. He knows that Ben has to be home before his mother thinks to wonder where the boy is, but Jon doesn't want him to leave. He looks at Ben, who is slinging his jacket on. Jon is still in his bathrobe and a pair of sweats and he'd been busying himself with loading the dishwasher while Ben dressed. Now he catches Ben looking at him oddly -- as he has all morning -- and he can't help remembering the way Ben looked last night.

Ben was so serious as he hovered above Jon, and Jon found himself wishing for some form of artistic talent, even in the midst of Ben's gentle preparations. The combination of candlelight, and firelight, and the soft wash of color from the tree lights made Ben look almost otherworldly, and Jon kept his eyes wide, wishing to capture this moment in memory if not in any concrete form.

Then Ben was moving slowing inside him, and the soft light that surrounded them both fractured as Jon's eyes watered. He couldn't even tell if the tears came from the faint burn or from his own gratitude for the moment. Moments later the burn had faded and the tears remained, accompanied by Ben's gasps, and his own soft cursing, and the faint slap of bodies in motion. Release, when it came, was strangely more all-encompassing than usual, and he'd been forced to blink back more tears as Ben collapsed gently on top of him.

Jon knows that all of this -- all of last night -- is reflected in his eyes as he smiles at Ben. "So," he says, "you're taking off?"

"Yeah. I mean, I never know when she'll come back and...." Ben ducks his head, obviously embarrassed, and Jon finds himself wishing it were June and not only January. "I just don't want to ... you know. Hear about it."

"Yeah," Jon replies, grabbing a towel to dry his hands off. "I guess I'll see you in class then." He moves in to brush that maddening lock of hair off Ben's forehead, and then bends down for a brief kiss. "Take care of yourself, OK?"

Ben presses in close, and grabs Jon around the neck, pulling him into a much fiercer kiss. In spite of the fact that they'd had slow, sleepy sex just a few hours earlier, Jon can feel himself responding to Ben's sudden aggressiveness. He moans into Ben's mouth, and lets his hands travel down the young man's back to cup his ass.

Finally Ben tapers the kiss off gradually, although he remains in the circle of Jon's arms. Jon smiles down at him, blown away once more at how right it feels to have Ben close like this. _Someday, he won't have to leave...._ he's telling himself when Ben speaks.

"I love you."


	53. Chapter 53

"I love you. I do. I've been trying not to say it for a long time now because I didn't--know--"

Ben breaks off talking when he sees the look on Jon's face. He can't really read what's there because it is overwhelmingly not good. There's no expectation there, no pleasure that Ben can see, but there is worry, and a little fear, and confusion, and then Jon is reaching for him, stammering quietly.

"I...uh...Ben...oh dear...." And he's pinching the bridge of his nose, and looking distressed.

Ben is stricken. He stares, and then realizes Jon's main difficulty is so easily solved by leaving. The boy takes a step backward from his teacher, away. "Okay," he whispers, nodding his head. He is suddenly sickly-colored, the white-hot ache in his stomach overwhelming. His world has curled up around itself and imploded as he reads that look on Jon's face, monumentally unhappy.

Jon stares, shaking his head and whispering, "No, Ben. Please, it's just--this isn't the time...."

Words fall out without permission; Ben should already be on the bus by now. "What's--when's a good time?" He can see the look in Jon's eyes, the wild, not-all-here look he gets right before he needs to take a tablet. There's something icy and dark in that, but poetic in a way that will make Ben draw savagely later. Ben knows now why he's waited so long to say it. Some part of him must have known Jon wouldn't want it, must have known it would provoke a heartpounding need to take a pill so he can not panic.

_You're seventeen for fuck's sake. He doesn't want you hanging on him, clinging, with your fucking textbook mother-issues and your shrink and your little Zoloft dependency, he's got bigger shit than you to deal with every day, you're just a kid, a stupid kid who can't even hack school, let alone the real world...._

The raging goes on, sounding suspiciously like Ben's mother, and that's what gives Ben the grateful resolve to just stay hard.

"Never mind," he manages through a tight throat. "I just...you know. I'll see you in class." He turns to go.

But Jon, still talking, makes him hesitate, and then he wishes he hadn't, because the words sound so canned now, so trite, so I-should-have-known.

"Ben...it's too complicated. I...."

Raising a hand to stave off the bullshit, Ben nods, face still turned away. "Yeah. Yeah, I know." And he goes, finally, leaving Jon behind, leaving the cel behind, too, and walking away from everything. He will not be in class on Monday, nor on Tuesday, and really he isn't sure how he'll ever set foot on school grounds again, let alone in Econ. He doesn't even think to hope his mother isn't home so he won't have to explain where he's been, or why he's upset; she seems to pretend to care around this time of year, and Ben's had enough of that. He does, however, hope she'll stay out of his way enough that he can borrow a couple of Valium.

Very quietly, after Ben is out the door and probably halfway to the bus stop, Jon whispers, "I love you, Ben." Then he goes and takes as much Xanax as he possibly, safely can. Then he goes to bed, and after a long time, synthetically aided, he stops shaking and goes to sleep.


	54. Chapter 54

Ben lies in bed, too tired to get up, even though hasn't really gotten up since New Year's day. He has no intention of going to school; really, he isn't thinking much beyond never going back. He hasn't bothered to think about how he's going to make that happen.

He's in the same flannel shirt, t-shirt and floppy jeans he was in yesterday and the day before. He hasn't moved much except to adjust the blanket over his mural so that there isn't a tentacle sticking out anymore; at this point he doesn't much care if his mother finds it, but he doesn't want to look at it. He hasn't eaten, really, either. He could eat peanut butter out of a jar and it would remind him of Jon somehow, so he doesn't bother.

There are several CDs on shuffle right now. He just changed the music out--before this set of discs, he had a handful of them that had been on for about thirty hours. His mother has been dicking around in the main part of the house and she hasn't noticed yet that it's a school day and that school's actually been back in for a couple days now, or she's been ignoring it. There's always that lapse between the first of the year and the first day of school; usually there's a weekend in between or something, and she's been gone most of it. He figures when she decides it's time for him to go back, he'll act like he's getting on the bus and just go somewhere else.

_I wonder how you sleep  
I wonder what you think of me  
If I could go back  
Would you have ever been with me?_

Ben rolls over as quickly as he can. "Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck." He ejects the tray, spins it, pulls out Matchbox 20 before they can start in for real; he doesn't want to hear about saviors and downfalls right now.

It's just enough to get him started thinking, though. Just enough.

_Does he love me? Was he stalling for time because he doesn't, or just because he didn't want to say it, or--was he just fucking me?_

The idea hurts so much that Ben just sets the disc, naked, on the top of the stereo and goes back to bed. The other CDs are still standing out, tray still extended, but he can't be bothered with that now. He flumps down on top of the covers and a couple pieces of laundry, curled in a ball on his side away from the mural. The only reason he's even bothered getting out of bed at all is because the Valium he dug out of his mother's purse is fogging things just enough that sometimes he can convince himself it doesn't matter if Jon loves him or not.

_It's too complicated..._

"That doesn't mean he doesn't," Ben says aloud, his voice dull and tired, but he doesn't believe it. "Yeah it does," he whispers after a few moments. "It means he doesn't." He doesn't really see how it's possible; he's seen how Jon looks at him and felt how Jon touches him, and they've been there for each other during some serious shit. It's been the longest Ben has ever been with anyone, and he can't imagine...can't believe Jon doesn't, just can't.

_But he doesn't, or he wouldn't have given me the speech he wanted to give me the day in the coffee shop. It should have gone, "You're too young for me, Ben, you're my student, I could get in trouble, but don't worry, you'll find someone your own age..."_

He remembers sitting in Jon's class when he began to realize he was attracted; he remembers slouching down in his seat so that Jon maybe wouldn't call on him, and he remembers being both irritated and impressed that it never worked. At first, he got pretty tired of the whole idea that Jon could draw him out of that fucking shell people are always talking about, but then before he realized what he was doing, he was volunteering for the TA roster.

He realizes how completely that worked, how utterly easy it was for Jon, and Ben decides he doesn't like being out of his shell. It's raw and cold, and it was easier when he didn't have anyone fucking around with his head.

Ben's never been in love before Jon, and he feels sick with it. He feels absolutely sick, and the idea that he'll never, ever do it again never crosses his mind in so many words. It will later, but now, no. For him, right now, it's as simple as not leaving his room.


	55. Chapter 55

Jon hates taking Klonopin sublingually. It's not the taste, but the faintly gritty yet mushy texture as the pill -- in this case two of them -- melts. As always, he's tempted to swallow halfway through the process, but not only would that defeat the purpose of sticking the damn things under his tongue in the first place, it would also look a little funny if he swallowed and grimaced for no readily apparent reason. So he lets the pills melt and absorb, and tries to pay attention to the stack of assignments in front of him while the class does their reading.

Ben isn't in class.

Ben wasn't in class yesterday.

Jon is going to have to discreetly ask Mrs. Erickson if Ben was in her class, because, aside from Jon's class, art is the one class Ben never misses. Of course Jon's not sure what would be worse: learning that Ben only skipped this class, or that he is skipping school altogether.

Jon rather wishes he could skip school as well.

He also wishes that he'd said something else when Ben said **that** a few days ago. But he didn't know what to say, didn't know how to explain why he couldn't say what Ben expected him to say.

Part of it is that saying, "I love you" has meaning for Jon. It's connected with commitment, with something beyond what he can give Ben now. He knows it's old fashioned, not to mention oddly romantic, for a gay man, but there it is.

He'd had it all planned out. After Ben turned 18 and graduated -- after there were no more legal impediments -- they could talk about a future beyond making plans to see each other on a weekend. Ben would have financial independence and Jon had expected to talk long and seriously with the young man about what he -- Ben -- wanted to do. Jon had even promised himself not to try to push Ben into doing what Jon thought he should do.

But there's more than that. More than just the idea that admitting to a feeling means commitment and a future. Jon knows that if he were to talk with David, his therapist, about it, the talk would ramble to Jon's mother, and Xani, and loss, and guilt.

And fear.

The bell rings, and the class shuffles out, as Jon admits to himself that his fear of love has grievously hurt the one person he loves the most.

The last of the Klonopin melts away under his tongue.


	56. Chapter 56

Ben's been dicking around all afternoon. His mother finally copped to the fact last night that he was supposed to be in school, and so today he got up, made for the bus stop and then tooled around town all day. 

Now he's making for home again. It's probably close to five, and he's about two houses down from his when he sees the smoke rising from the chimney of his house. It's funny-looking smoke to begin with (as if, in this part of the state, it wasn't funny enough to have a fire in the middle of a 60-degree day), and the closer he gets, the more he realizes it smells faintly of plastic.

He breaks into a run. He does not like this at all.

The instant he bursts in the door he's striding forward, staring, disbelieving. His mother has the end of an armload of his things and is feeding the last of them into the fire--what remains are two sketches, five manga and the Speed Racer figure. 

"Jesus!" he shrieks. "Mom, what the fuck are you--"

She whirls on him. Her eyes are wild, so crazy he recoils. Her brown, curly hair bobs with the force of her movement as she holds up a sketch. 

"Don't you _what the fuck_ me. Who is that." 

It's Djinn, of course. He is behind the nameless boy, cradling him in his lap, one arm wrapped around the boy's waist, the other hand up, stroking his throat. They are, quite obviously, fucking, even though on that particular day, Ben was playing more with the movement of cloth than bodies. They are fully dressed; there is a triangle of naked hip on the boy between the top of his pants and where the tunic ends. 

"It's just--a drawing," he says, but his voice is too soft to be convincing. It's all he can manage; he feels like the air's been kicked out of his chest. He fidgets with the strap on his pack.

"_Who is it!_" she screams, shaking, and when he doesn't answer, she tosses it and the remaining manga into the fire. "I want to know who the fuck you're drawing these disgusting pictures of." He still doesn't answer, so she plows on. "I'll tell you, then. The school called me today. A very concerned teacher has noticed that you've been mooning around the guy you TA for."

Ben laughs weakly. "That's so stupid. Why would they--"

"You know good and fucking well why. Because someone must have seen you together. This teacher, this woman, was very fucking worried that I'd sue the school. She wanted to reassure me it was being handled. She wanted me to understand it was all okay now."

Ben shakes his head. _She doesn't know shit,_ he tells himself, but there's a good deal of bravado there. He's never really been scared of his mother, but he is right now.

"Well, I don't know what they're talking about. I used him as a model 'cause I see him every day. All the time. They're just drawings."

"You're letting him fuck you." Lorna's voice has taken on a chilling quality, a tone Ben has never heard her use before. "How disgusting can you--God, you are so sick. I wish I had known my son was a faggot, I'd never have agreed to custody. Now you tell me this fucker's name. I want his phone number."

Ben is reeling inside, hot and sick. He is suddenly glad, very glad he and his mother never talk, glad she doesn't know anything important about him. _She knows you're a faggot,_ he corrects himself nastily, and his eyes are locked onto hers.

"I wish you'd never agreed to custody, too," he grinds out. "I really do." And he heads for his room. 

His intention is to throw a change of clothes and the last of his Christmas money into the pack, but he stops at the doorway, staring, struck dumb. 

The mural has been spraypainted over. In its place is a dripping blob of glossy black, glaring, maniacal proof that his mother has turned the corner completely. His trunk of parchment sketches is empty, the lock broken into--the hammer's still sitting there on the floor. His manga are all gone. His figures, his videos... everything is gone. He realizes with scary clarity that she's been through everything, taken everything of personal value and ransacked the rest. 

Eyes furious and slightly insane, Lorna throws Speed Racer into the fire and follows Ben. "You tell me his name," she says, her voice dark and ugly. She watches him flounder for a minute, and then as he bends to pick up a shirt off the end of the bed, she grabs his arm and whirls him around. 

"Tell me his name." 

"I didn't do anything wrong," Ben tells her resolutely, and tips his chin up. "Neither did he. No one's fucking me."

An enraged shriek belts itself out of Lorna's throat, and Ben barely realizes what's about to happen before it's over. She backhands him with a loose, unpracticed fist to the face. It's hard enough to make him see white flashes, to make his teeth clamp together solidly, not hard enough to knock him down, not quite, but he's rocking back a little, shuffling a step to the side so that he doesn't fall. Dimly, he realizes she has split his lip. She looks as startled as he does, but no less angry. 

It's enough to give him his anger back. Licking at the blood on his lip, he glares at her and shifts his backpack off his shoulder to shove the shirt inside. He keeps his eyes down, afraid of her now, even through the anger--really truly afraid--as he grabs a pair of sweats and shoves them in, too. His money he digs out of a corner of a desk drawer and pockets. 

"I'm out of here," he whispers. 

"Where the hell are you going to go?" she demands shrilly as he shoves past her aggressively. 

"I don't care. Neither do you." 

"Well, you're right. I don't. Just go, just get out. Perverted little fuck." Ben can hear her voice shaking, and he doesn't know if she's coming down off the high of fury, or if she's really sorry he's going, or if she's just faking. He decides there's been so much lack of caring in the house since his dad left that he doesn't mind adding a little more. 

"Fuck this," he sighs, and suddenly he does care. It hurts like all hell, and he never expected that. He slams out the door, noting how she doesn't come after him. He realizes that in spite of everything, he always hoped it would get better. He always held something back, just in case she might actually love him. He gives it up now, lets it die. He fumbles in a cargo pocket for the cellphone and dials shakily, stopping and backspacing a couple of times because he can't see through the tears. It rings, and rings, and then there is the light click of the phone being answered. Before that voice can speak, before Ben can be run off by the sound of it, he begins to speak.

"Jon--"


	57. Chapter 57

Ben's been dicking around all afternoon. His mother finally copped to the fact last night that he was supposed to be in school, and so today he got up, made for the bus stop and then tooled around town all day.

Now he's making for home again. It's probably close to five, and he's about two houses down from his when he sees the smoke rising from the chimney of his house. It's funny-looking smoke to begin with (as if, in this part of the state, it wasn't funny enough to have a fire in the middle of a 60-degree day), and the closer he gets, the more he realizes it smells faintly of plastic.

He breaks into a run. He does not like this at all.

The instant he bursts in the door he's striding forward, staring, disbelieving. His mother has the end of an armload of his things and is feeding the last of them into the fire--what remains are two sketches, five manga and the Speed Racer figure.

"Jesus!" he shrieks. "Mom, what the fuck are you--"

She whirls on him. Her eyes are wild, so crazy he recoils. Her brown, curly hair bobs with the force of her movement as she holds up a sketch.

"Don't you _what the fuck_ me. Who is that."

It's Djinn, of course. He is behind the nameless boy, cradling him in his lap, one arm wrapped around the boy's waist, the other hand up, stroking his throat. They are, quite obviously, fucking, even though on that particular day, Ben was playing more with the movement of cloth than bodies. They are fully dressed; there is a triangle of naked hip on the boy between the top of his pants and where the tunic ends.

"It's just--a drawing," he says, but his voice is too soft to be convincing. It's all he can manage; he feels like the air's been kicked out of his chest. He fidgets with the strap on his pack.

"_Who is it!_" she screams, shaking, and when he doesn't answer, she tosses it and the remaining manga into the fire. "I want to know who the fuck you're drawing these disgusting pictures of." He still doesn't answer, so she plows on. "I'll tell you, then. The school called me today. A very concerned teacher has noticed that you've been mooning around the guy you TA for."

Ben laughs weakly. "That's so stupid. Why would they--"

"You know good and fucking well why. Because someone must have seen you together. This teacher, this woman, was very fucking worried that I'd sue the school. She wanted to reassure me it was being handled. She wanted me to understand it was all okay now."

Ben shakes his head. _She doesn't know shit,_ he tells himself, but there's a good deal of bravado there. He's never really been scared of his mother, but he is right now.

"Well, I don't know what they're talking about. I used him as a model 'cause I see him every day. All the time. They're just drawings."

"You're letting him fuck you." Lorna's voice has taken on a chilling quality, a tone Ben has never heard her use before. "How disgusting can you--God, you are so sick. I wish I had known my son was a faggot, I'd never have agreed to custody. Now you tell me this fucker's name. I want his phone number."

Ben is reeling inside, hot and sick. He is suddenly glad, very glad he and his mother never talk, glad she doesn't know anything important about him. _She knows you're a faggot,_ he corrects himself nastily, and his eyes are locked onto hers.

"I wish you'd never agreed to custody, too," he grinds out. "I really do." And he heads for his room.

His intention is to throw a change of clothes and the last of his Christmas money into the pack, but he stops at the doorway, staring, struck dumb.

The mural has been spraypainted over. In its place is a dripping blob of glossy black, glaring, maniacal proof that his mother has turned the corner completely. His trunk of parchment sketches is empty, the lock broken into--the hammer's still sitting there on the floor. His manga are all gone. His figures, his videos... everything is gone. He realizes with scary clarity that she's been through everything, taken everything of personal value and ransacked the rest.

Eyes furious and slightly insane, Lorna throws Speed Racer into the fire and follows Ben. "You tell me his name," she says, her voice dark and ugly. She watches him flounder for a minute, and then as he bends to pick up a shirt off the end of the bed, she grabs his arm and whirls him around.

"Tell me his name."

"I didn't do anything wrong," Ben tells her resolutely, and tips his chin up. "Neither did he. No one's fucking me."

An enraged shriek belts itself out of Lorna's throat, and Ben barely realizes what's about to happen before it's over. She backhands him with a loose, unpracticed fist to the face. It's hard enough to make him see white flashes, to make his teeth clamp together solidly, not hard enough to knock him down, not quite, but he's rocking back a little, shuffling a step to the side so that he doesn't fall. Dimly, he realizes she has split his lip. She looks as startled as he does, but no less angry.

It's enough to give him his anger back. Licking at the blood on his lip, he glares at her and shifts his backpack off his shoulder to shove the shirt inside. He keeps his eyes down, afraid of her now, even through the anger--really truly afraid--as he grabs a pair of sweats and shoves them in, too. His money he digs out of a corner of a desk drawer and pockets.

"I'm out of here," he whispers.

"Where the hell are you going to go?" she demands shrilly as he shoves past her aggressively.

"I don't care. Neither do you."

"Well, you're right. I don't. Just go, just get out. Perverted little fuck." Ben can hear her voice shaking, and he doesn't know if she's coming down off the high of fury, or if she's really sorry he's going, or if she's just faking. He decides there's been so much lack of caring in the house since his dad left that he doesn't mind adding a little more.

"Fuck this," he sighs, and suddenly he does care. It hurts like all hell, and he never expected that. He slams out the door, noting how she doesn't come after him. He realizes that in spite of everything, he always hoped it would get better. He always held something back, just in case she might actually love him. He gives it up now, lets it die. He fumbles in a cargo pocket for the cellphone and dials shakily, stopping and backspacing a couple of times because he can't see through the tears. It rings, and rings, and then there is the light click of the phone being answered. Before that voice can speak, before Ben can be run off by the sound of it, he begins to speak.

"Jon--"


	58. Chapter 58

The knife slips, and the garlic clove somehow goes flying off the cutting board to hit Jon in the throat. It hurts, not because it comes at any high velocity, but because it hits right where the lump is. The lump that's been there all day.

Jon suddenly drops the knife, ignoring the dull clatter as it lands on the counter. He backs away and sinks into a chair, staring in dull surprise at his kitchen.

It's a mess. All of the counters, including the island in the middle of the kitchen, are covered with food. Later, Jon will realize that he's pulled almost everything out of his refrigerator and chopped anything that could be chopped, but now he just looks at it all without really seeing it.

What he's seeing instead is the note that was in his inbox this morning. The one asking him to step into the Mr Richards' -- the principal -- office and to not worry about his first period class because a sub had been arranged.

The day went rapidly downhill from there.

Jon certainly understands why Mrs. Erickson was concerned, and or even why she needed to alert the administration. It's right that a teacher should be concerned when she sees something that points to abuse. They're all right and he's wrong.

So very wrong.

Not that he said anything like that in the meeting. No, he lied, thanking whatever powers that exist for the fact that, worried about Ben, he had taken a fair amount of medication even before he saw the note in his inbox. And that, as a gay man in a straight world, he has a lot of experience with lies.

The meeting with the principal is a blur now. He denied having any interest in Ben beyond that of a concerned teacher for a bright, but troubled student. He knew perfectly well that whatever he said would be accepted because the administration doesn't wish to deal with a scandal. Accepted. Well not exactly. As long as no proof is offered by anyone, and Ben's mother doesn't bring the police into it, he won't go to jail.

"This will be discussed at higher levels," Dan Richards said, leaning across his desk. "But Jon, while that discussion is taking place, we'd prefer it if you took a bit of a vacation."

Jon looks around the kitchen at the food -- enough food to feed 20 people -- that's everywhere, but he doesn't see it. He's seeing a classroom. One he's taught in ever since his disastrous two years at the state university before he decided that academia was not for him. It's been a very long time, and he's been happy at the high school.

And now, he'll never see that classroom again, except maybe on a weekend, escorted, while he picks up his personal items.

It hurts. Not like Xani dying, but still, a small part of Jon has been torn loose. As he reaches for the phone to call the one person who always helps when he's hurting, it rings. Confused, he looks at the phone for a long time, dimly wondering how Beth knew to call him.

When he finally picks it up, it's not Beth's voice on the other end of the line.

"Jon..."

Ben's voice is ... broken.


	59. Chapter 59

Ben has no idea where he's going as he walks; he decides even as he begins to speak, hurriedly and brokenly, that he's headed for the park nearest his house. Then his brain stops functioning and words are spilling out of his mouth before he can stop them.

"Jon--Jon, Jesus--" He starts to cry in the middle of his sentence. "She's--she knows, she--she trashed my room--"

Jon's voice is slurred and almost sullen. Ben can't quite register it at first, the soft quality of it.

"I ... I know. Nel ... Mrs. Erickson saw soemthing. But Ben ... they're not certain. They don't have any proof."

Scarcely hearing, Ben plows on. "She trashed my--she burned my stuff, she--she found the mural, she _spraypainted it_!"

Slowly, dully, Ben realizes Jon is very heavily medicated. "Oh, fuck," the teacher is saying, "oh, Ben, I'm so sorry, fuck ... did she hurt you ... physically?"

Hitching in an uneven breath and trying to calm down, Ben notices that he's reached the park. He sinks into a swing and grips the chain, leaning his forehead on his wrist. "She--she..." He doesn't want to say. He knows, though, with the faint hopefulness that comes of immaturity, that by Ben's reticence, Jon will know. Jon will know, and help.

"Where are you?"

Swallowing, clearing his throat, and sniffing, Ben suddenly realizes who it is he's called, and what's happened between them. "I'm--at the park on Southeast Pine." He rubs at his jaw, startled somehow to feel the ache there, the growing, swelling bruise. He hasn't stopped licking at the split on his lip since she gave it to him.

"OK ... How badly ... are you OK to walk up to the hospital?"

Ben snorts impatiently. "Fuck, I don't need a _hospital._ I just--look--never mind, okay, I just--she was on something, she had to be. I'm gonna wait till she passes out. That's all." Ben doesn't know what to do after that, but it's all he's ever done; that's how you cope with Lorna--you wait till she passes out. He thinks about the change of clothes and the money and discards whatever half-formed plan he'd thought he'd employ. The fact is, he has nowhere else to go.

The thought hurts; he should, really, be able to go to Jon's house, but Ben discards the idea immediately. The school knows. Breathing too hard, scared in ways he can't even sort out yet, Ben just holds the phone to his ear as Jon keeps talking.

"Listen to me, Ben. I want you to go to the hospital anyway. I want you to tell them what happened. We have to get you out of that house and this is where we start."

Sharply, bitterly, Ben spits, "What'm I gonna tell them? Why she did this? How I knew she was a fucking bomb ticking and I pissed her off by letting my Econ teacher fuck me until the school caught us?"

There's the sound of water running, a pill bottle being shaken. There's a pause, and only then does Jon speak again. "Ben, please ... do not mention anything about what we've been doing. No one has _any_ proof and it's not as important as getting you away from her." There's another pause. "You don't really want to go home, do you? After _this_?"

The defeat is all-encompassing. "Where the fuck else am I going to go." Ben feels small and lost, and suddenly he's aware of how he sounds, calling Jon like this in the middle of a crisis, as though Jon can help. As though he would, or even as though Ben has the right to ask.

"Look," he says hurriedly. "Forget it. I--I already knew this wasn't...you know--I'm sorry."

He hangs up. Some kids come into the park and it seems so wrong, this situation, the cheerfulness of the day, the strange mid-January warmth in the primary-colored, cultivated play area. They're on the slides, and then one of them comes over and sits in the swing next to Ben and starts pushing off with short little legs. Ben is abruptly, vehemently jealous. It crosses his mind to say something nasty to make the kid go away when his phone rings again.

He looks at the caller ID number, as though he really needs to be told it's Jon.

"Yeah."

"Ben ... please listen to me and don't hang up. OK?"

Flatly, Ben says "yeah" again, not wanting to admit to himself how much he needs the sound of Jon's voice right now.

"First off, where are you?"

"At the park still."

"All right. Just please let me get through this even though it's going to piss you off. I called the cops and reported a domestic disturbance in progress at your place. They'll go, and find your mom, and then decide what to do about it. You _need_ to go to the hospital and tell them that your mom hit you. And then ... fuck ..." And there's a long pause and a hard, undecipherable sound. Ben knows he won't like what Jon is about to say.

Jon's voice still has that strange, flat quality to it as he goes on, "CPS will have to look into it. I'm ... I'm sorry, but I couldn't let you go back there." And now, he's talking very fast, as though to let Ben interrupt would be to destroy everything. "It's going to get very hard from here on out, but at your age, they won't stick you in a formal foster care situation and you might be able to start the emancipation process. You'll probably have to leave school, but you can test out. By the time this is even halfway to being resolved, you'll be a legal adult with your trust fund. You got all that?"

Ben's chest hurts with the force of his anger by the time Jon finally stops talking. He can't even think, can't even imagine what to say when the words start ripping themselves out of him without his permission. He finds he is glaring at the jungle gym across from him, as though it represents his problem.

"Fucking--I didn't need this--I'm _that_ close to being eighteen, don't you think I _knew_ all that? Why the fuck should I--?" A sob gets out between the words, and Ben slumps over, staring at the sand between his sneakers. "I'm going to the hospital just because it'll piss her off, and then I'm not doing another fucking thing. You don't think I can ride this out till April... Fuck. I shouldn't have called you, Jon." Ben has never felt betrayed before, and now, it's just one more thing to hate: he should have known better. He uses that to sum up everything he's done since he turned fifteen. He should have known better.

Jon's voice sounds beaten and defeated. "Ben, you're angry and you have every right to be, but ... damn it, I _love_ you and every time you go home or you're not in school I'm afraid for you."

Ben's shock and anger overwhelm everything. He has heard the words without registering them, and then when he thinks about them, he hears them as a ploy. Barely able to speak above a whisper, he breathes, "Fuck you. Fuck you and that--that--I don't need you feeding me that bullshit now." He switches the call off, then switches the phone off, too, knowing with a sick kind of prescience that it's more completely _over_ than even he realized. There is no fixing it now. There's no fixing any of it.


	60. Chapter 60

Randy Reed turns the TV down another level. Stargate is one of those annoying movies where the sound varies wildly, and she doesn't want to bother Uncle Jon. She bites nervously at an already ripped cuticle as she glances at the door to the extra bedroom, and then forces herself to stop abusing her cuticle, choosing instead to comb her still-damp hair.

She's exhausted -- between swim practice in the mornings, school, and swim practice in the afternoons, she has very little time to herself. One of the rules in the Quenton-Reed household is that Randy has two hours after dinner to do whatever she likes, within reason. The big TV is hers to watch movies or play X-box, as long as her grades or times don't suffer for it. It's pretty cool really; a lot of the kids who swim at her level have insanely strict parents.

She glances at the door again, and then stares at the screen resolutely. Daniel is being presented with the thing that looks sort of like an armadillo, and he's about to say....

"Tastes like chicken," a soft husky voice says from behind her. "He's going to say that it tastes like chicken, isn't he?" her uncle says, although it's obvious he doesn't care.

Randy hits pause, and the movie freezes on Daniel's expression of surprise. "You've seen it before?"

Uncle Jon shakes his head. "Predictable," he says.

"It wasn't too loud was it?" She looks at his bathrobe and sweatpants. "I didn't want to wake you up." She's being polite; she knows full well that her uncle isn't sleeping.

He's been here for over two months now, and he hardly ever comes out of his room. A couple of weeks after he arrived, Randy heard her mom crying as she told Randy's dad that Jon wasn't sleeping or reading or even listening to music. "He just ... lies there. Staring at the ceiling. Eric it's ... it's just like when Xani died."

Randy snaps back to the present as Jon speaks. "No, I was ... awake."

"You ... you wanna watch it with me?" Randy offers, not knowing what else to do. "I can go back to the beginning." She's trying not to cry, because thinking of Uncle Xani always makes her want to cry, and Mom is right. Uncle Jon does look like he did when Uncle Xani died. His beard is untidy and there are snarls in his hair and his eyes are sunken and tinged with red. And he's skinny. What her sister Helen calls "scary skinny."

"No," he says again. Then he blinks and tries to smile, and that's even harder to see than the blank expression. "I thought I might make something. You hungry?"

The cooking thing is even scarier than the skinny thing. Meals tend to appear in the fridge at odd hours, and Helen told Randy that just the other day Uncle Jon was making cupcakes at 3 in the morning when Helen got up to go to the bathroom.

"Uh ... not really," Beth says. She wishes she knew why Uncle Jon is so unhappy. Shortly after he got here, back at the end of January -- when no one in their right mind vacations in Alaska -- she heard him talking to her mom. A lot of really low mumbling, and it was only when she put a glass to the wall that she heard the name Ben, and something about Uncle Jon's job. And then Helen had come in --without knocking, which is a constant source of stress between the two sisters -- and in yelling at her, Randy had managed to hide he fact that she'd been snooping.

Jon looks at his niece. In the low light of the family room, her short hair reminds him of Ben's, although in reality, Randy's hair is much lighter. But for a minute she looks like Ben. Not the shape of her face or the color of her eyes or hair, more her expression. The same expression he saw on Ben's face when Jon failed to say "I love you too," on New Year's Day.

Fuck. She's scared.

"Miranda," he says quietly, sitting down on the sofa. "Can we talk for a minute?"

"Uh ... sure."

"I'm sorry I've been so ... weird. It's ... I had to quit my job, and someone I care about very much ... someone I love, got hurt."

"Ben," she says and then looks as if she wants to stuff the word back into her mouth.

"Ben," he says, fighting that lump that's been in his throat ever since Ben failed to show up in school after the winter break.

"Is he ... is he sick?" He doesn't have to ask what she means, and he hates the fact that this bright, active young girl knows that men who love each other can get sick.

"No. He's ... we're both very unhappy. Sometimes when people love each other ... well I know your mom's talked to you about this. How not everyone thinks two guys should...." she nods and he moves on. "Ben's family was very upset and I thought it was best if I went away for a while."

"Oh," she says. "Are you gonna go back? When ... when you're better."

"I ... damn ... Miranda, I don't know."

She moves then, leaving the big easy chair to come and sit next to him. He looks down at her, and smiles, and she snuggles up, smelling of chlorine and hot chocolate.

"I love you, Uncle Jon," she says as if those words can fix everything.

And Jon suddenly he realizes the vast difference between the 14 year old girl, whose family cares about her and the 17 year old boy, whose mother doesn't give a shit.

Randy is a child. Ben is not.

It's that simple.

"I love you too, kiddo. Very much."

Oh, he knows himself well enough to know that he's still got a long way to go, and he knows that Ben may well never want to have anything to do with him. But he's going to try. Because maybe Randy is right this time. Maybe a kid can see what two adults can't

"So," he says. "Does the future Olympic gold medal swimmer still like peanut butter cookies?"

Randy smiles happily. "Only if there are chocolate chips in them."

He leans in, as if confiding a deep, dark secret to her. "I know exactly where your Mom's hidden the chips. I'll make cookies and then you can tell me what's up with James Spader there."

As the two head to the kitchen, Beth Quenton hears her daughter say. "I think Michael Shanks ... ya know, he plays Daniel in the TV show? I think he's cuter."

"I may have to watch some of both, so I can make an informed opinion," Jon replies.

Beth fades back into the hall, smiling.


	61. Chapter 61

Ben lies in bed, staring at his GED, pinned somewhat less than proudly to the wall with a thumbtack and a piece of tape holding one curling corner straight. It was the corner he fiddled with until his counselor finally took the paper away, awkwardly.

Tomorrow, he'll be eighteen. He'll step away from the boys' home into his own life; there are a couple other boys who have already come of age, and he's being placed in an apartment with them in kind of a halfway situation, and positioned in a low-level but possibly hopeful job.

The Sutter Boys' Home, for all it's opportunities and glossy, sunlit brochures of troubled boys happily joining vocations and starting careers and graduating college, has become a running gag among Ben and Alex and Gabriel. "We are the future: tomorrow's hopefully-not-punk-ass-criminals."

Ben doesn't think that's very funny right now.

He finally got a good counselor. Once his dad came out of nowhere to make the arrangements for the private home as opposed to the state, Ben has to admit that he got good *everything.* He had people to make sure he ate. They made sure he completed his high school equivalency exams. They made sure he knew how to do things like balance a checkbook, manage an income and pay it out again properly. There were even people who made sure he took his Zoloft on time.

God knew his parents weren't there to do it. Mom...

Ben sighs. He doesn't let himself think of his mother often. Lorna is in a state-run care facility. She is maintained on steady doses of something that is supposed to calm her down and ease her substance cravings, but she hasn't rehabilitated to functionality. They would let Ben visit her as often as he likes, but he doesn't like to, and that is one area in which the counselors don't push him--he suspects it's because they've seen the way she lunges out of her chair unreasonably when he comes. They've heard the way she shrieks at him.

It isn't him, they've told him over and over again. And he knows... he knows. When he went back to the house to get his clothes, he saw how bad it was, more so than he'd ever known. He found the stash of lined-up, empty pill bottles, exposed by the police: _hundreds_ of them, all carefully saved in a closet, like a shrine. He found the way she'd continued to rip up his room until the desk was in splinters and the last of his things--the stereo, the bookshelves, even the books--were broken and torn and piled up in some kind of order he realized somehow made sense to her. He found a little blood on the floor; he suspected she'd hurt herself at some point. When the police had come that day, she had resisted violently, but they'd only pinned her to the floor and cuffed her and let her rail. They said they'd had to stop her from banging her head against the screen inside the police car.

OCD, they said, exacerbated by her erratic prescription drug abuse and alcoholism. They're looking into schizophrenia--that's what they suspect--but they aren't really finding anything. She isn't talking to her psychiatrist. Unmedicated, they say, untreated, schizophrenia is very bad. Very bad. Ben thinks he gets it.

The Zoloft is helping him, Ben notes, little though he wants to admit to it. In that first month, it kept him from those weird episodes where he freaked out and wanted to break things. It kept him from wanting to down a whole bottle of Xanax, the last thing he'd taken from the house when he'd grabbed his clothes and what music he could find that she hadn't taken a hammer to. For a while, he thought he'd do it: just go into the common kitchen and make a shake--vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup and 15 milligrams of Xanax--and drink it all. Thirty tablets.

In the end, he turned the bottle in. They searched his room, mostly out of protocol, but that was all there had been. They watched him very carefully after that. But after that, he was fine.

No... not fine. He has never really been fine, not since January. Even tomorrow when they release him, drive him around to open his bank account with his first paycheck--from, ironically, Coffee Werks--and get him situated in the apartment with Alex and Gabe, he won't be fine. He'll pretend. He'll take his Zoloft and grin and smoke, and they'll go take in The Two Towers _again_ because Gabe is such a fucking gaming freak. But there are some things Zoloft won't help with. There are some things that you just have to get through.

Jon is one of those things.

The Zoloft doesn't take away how Ben misses him. Ben has learned to wake himself up in the night from dreams of Jon's hands, touching, stroking, sliding inside. He still sees Jon's blue, blue eyes, and the way Jon's dark work slacks were always smudged with chalk. He still hears the tone of Jon's voice when Jon had listened to him and was replying with thoughtfulness. Ben forces himself awake then because it hurts so much to be asleep during those dreams. Lucid dreaming, the counselor calls it, when Ben has given him vague references. Ben hears the voice in his sleeping head, knows it's not real, and the firm voice that he's cultivated tells him to wake up.

_Wake the fuck up._

There have been kids coming in from Reagan High sometimes. Ben tends to find out who they are pretty quickly. He has a decent source of information right now. That source says Jon Quenton hasn't been at Reagan since early January.

There's something about that. Something Ben finds frightening on so many levels he can't even consider them all.

"Fuck, I miss you," Ben chokes out, very softly, to the ceiling. He turns over, knowing he should be packing. He could, at least, be drawing. He hasn't drawn Djinn since last month sometime, and that was a shaky, hesitant, grief-stricken piece done on a paper napkin. He kept wanting to apologize for truncating Djinn's life so abruptly. He wanted to ask where the boy was, why Djinn suddenly came to him alone. He did neither, because Djinn offers nothing in return. But he took the drawing and pressed it reverently inside a book; in the end, he was glad Djinn came back at all, and sorry that it all ended this way.

He hasn't felt guilty since sometime in mid-February. His life has been marked out in progress charts and slowly decreasing self-destructive behavior patterns since then. In the early days, Ben had plenty of reason to feel guilty: for not considering, for not thinking ahead, for being selfish. For needing Jon so much that he eventually convinced himself that he caused their discovery and what he assumed to be Jon's firing.

_And I wasted his New Year's Eve,_ Ben used to think, although he doesn't allow himself to think that anymore. Not that the thought went away on its own, no. But some things just take months and maybe years to heal from. Ben's own wasted time has figured in, too. His anger, his hurt, and now his simple, clean melancholy have to come out on their own.

No. Some things can't be fixed with Zoloft. Some things just have to go away, and Ben doesn't know how to make them. But he's trying. Damn, but he's trying.


	62. Chapter 62

Jon looks around the kitchen, smiling with satisfaction as he puts the mop and bucket back into the laundry room. Not only is the public part of Beth's house clean, it's going to stay that way until Sunday night.

He pours himself a glass of wine and heads into the living room, picking up the remote and turning the stereo down to non-housecleaning levels. Robert Smith is still happily singing about it being Friday and being in love, which is rather unfortunate from Jon's point of view. Still, if he's learned one thing in his life, it's that if you're trying to avoid reminders of a messed up relationship, you need to avoid music all together.

And yet .... it is Friday and Jon knows that he's in love. He doesn't particularly want to be, has been desperately trying to move on, and yet Ben remains in his memory. And lately the situation has become more complicated.

Jon knew from the start that he couldn't stay with Beth indefinitely, and lately he's become aware of a tension in the Quenton-Reed household, which, while it has nothing to do with him, is something he's in a position to do something about.

Randy needs two things; a better coach and, almost more importantly as far as everyone (including her current coach) is concerned, she needs better competition. Jon has been calling her a future gold medalist ever since she first started serious lessons, and years later, he seems to have been prophetic. But she can't do it here and Eric's job as an arctic wildlife biologist working for the state of Alaska won't lead to transfers to warmer -- and more populated -- climes.

The answer is staring them all in the face. One of the US's better swim coaches -- one who's trained medalists in the past -- works at a complex less than ten miles away from Jon's house. While Jon would rather Randy didn't go to Reagan High, he could very easily get her into one of the other public schools, or even pay for a private school; there's a Waldorf school in town that would take her happily, as Randy's grades are excellent. He's going to have nothing but time on his hands when he returns home, getting his niece to practice, meets and so on, would be easy and would give his life a little structure.

The irony that Beth would trust him with her daughter, where his employers of over 20 years didn't entirely trust him with their students, isn't lost on them. Early retirement, while it could be seen as an admission of guilt, saved everyone's face and conscience. And although Jon hasn't thought much beyond making it through each day and keeping out of bed for more than six hours at a time, he knows he's got to think ahead.

And hell, why not become a soccer mom at his age?

Well to begin with, he had seriously considered moving. Juneau holds no appeal whatsoever, even if it means that he'd be close to his sister. But Portland, or San Francisco, or Seattle all sound good, and while his retirement benefits aren't great, he still has the money both his dad and Xani left him.

If he goes home, there's Ben. And there's his love for Ben, which he's so sure Ben doesn't want. He wonders if, on that horrible complicated afternoon, Ben even heard him say "I love you," or if was just one more thing that Ben didn't get because all he wanted was for Jon to say, "I'll take care of it."

Jon recognizes that he's brooding again. and heads into the kitchen. With everyone away for the weekend, he intends to make candy: truffles for Beth and Helen, and peanut brittle for Eric and Randy. As he enters the kitchen the bright colors of the Lonely Planet calendar catch his eye, and he stares at today's date, circled because of Randy's meet, in shock.

It's Ben's birthday.

Impulsively, Jon reaches for the phone. As sometimes happens, he almost seems to see his actions from the outside, watching in dull surprise his fingers dial a number long memorized. He has no idea what he's going to say to Ben, or even why he's calling, only that it's what he wants to do.

"Thank you for calling Verizon Wireless. That number is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again. Thank you for calling...."

Jon stares at the phone, knowing he dialed the right number; his memory for numbers of any kind is almost photographic, but he dials again, carefully punching the numbers to Ben's cell. "Thank you for calling Verizon Wireless. That number is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again. Thank you for calling Verizon wireless. That number is no longer in service. Please....." Jon finally hangs up.

He then calmly reaches for the phone book and looks up the number for Alaska Airlines.


	63. Chapter 63

Ben sets the alarm for six a.m., even for days when he works the three-to-ten shift at Coffee Werks. When he has to be there at seven in the morning, it sucks if he's been up late and oversleeping all the other days. His roommates groan about it when he hauls his ass off to bed at eleven at night. They call him an old man and make denture-smacking noises about it. Ben doesn't care.

He rolls over and hits snooze twice before finally getting up. Rubbing his eyes, he scratches at his chest and then runs a hand over his hair. His scalp feels funny, and he can tell his hair is sticking up weird where he slept on it wrong. He'll bother about that later.

The apartment, while quiet, is not empty. Alex and Gabe are crashed, still; Gabe won't roll over till ten or eleven, and Alex doesn't get up till eight. Gabe works the same screwy kinds of hours Ben does, at the Golden Skillet, and Alex goes in at nine, to do menial phone tech support and filing. He's got the most reputable job of the three; he's an intern at a small accounting software company. He doesn't make any more money than they do, but he gets his weekends free.

Ben pulls on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, just for courtesy's sake. They teased him about running around in his briefs half the time at the home; they know he's gay, and it's a regular running joke to make cracks about the two staunch hetero boys, converted by the sight of Ben's white-cotton-clad ass, suddenly deciding they have to have dick. Ben usually sighs and flips them off; that garners more jokes. It's all good.

He pads out to the kitchen and washes the carafe so he can make the coffee. He stands there while it brews, all twelve cups, of which he will have two and Alex will have four, and Gabe will let the rest burn in the pot all afternoon, and then Ben will get up tomorrow morning and dump it and start over. Gabe gets pissed off if there's no coffee for him. Ben's never seen him drink more than half a cup. Gabe pays for the coffee, though, so no one complains.

Alex gets himself out of bed early today. He comes into the kitchen, scratching at the inside of one thigh. "Morning."

"Yeah," Ben replies, and gets down two coffee cups. "You're up early."

"Wanted to get the TV before you take it over," Alex grins, his bright blue eyes flashing. He's so All-American that Ben would probably be carrying a serious hard-on for him if Alex weren't as straight as a plank. He's tanned, his hair is perfect, he wears his class ring still. He seems like he should be the antithesis of the tech support nerd, and yet that's exactly what he is.

"Man," Ben complains lightly, "I just like a little Bloodrayne when I get up."

"Yeah, whatever. You like it till it's time for me to go to work, and I have a training video I have to watch."

"Fine." Ben flicks his hand dismissively and pours the coffee.

While Alex watches his training video, Ben takes his coffee and heads into the bathroom. He figures he might as well get his shower out of the way. The water's nice and hot, and he stands under it a moment, tilting his head from side to side, and then washes his hair. He runs a hand over it and then the image comes to him, unbidden.

It's Jon, on his knees, in front of him. He's got Ben in his mouth and is sucking lazily, and one hand is resting lightly on Ben's hip. Ben smooths his hand over the long, wet hair--

Shuddering, Ben tilts his face into the spray.

_Fuck,_ he moans internally, _just one day. Just one fucking day, Jon, leave me alone... _ But Jon never leaves him alone; Ben is too much in love for that. So Ben succumbs to it. He soaps his sudden erection and sighs, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

_"Fuck you," wasn't it? Wasn't that what you said to him when he said "I love you"?_

Ben goes through game levels in his head to drown out his own internal monologue. His hand works quickly; Alex is going to need the shower and he'll be livid if Ben uses up all the hot water jacking off. He tries to think of the girls he screwed in high school. He tries to think of Track Boy. He even tries to think about Alex, suddenly converted from plank-straight to bent as hell, and he can't. It always comes back around to Jon.

So he turns his thoughts back to his tentacled monster: violently taking, binding up, filling, wrapped around with crushing strength. Ben never knows if he's fantasizing about himself inside that tight hold or if it's someone else he wants to see there, but that does it. He comes silently, turning into the spray and bracing himself on the washcloth bar. His mouth is open with his quiet gasping. He forces himself to come down quickly, washing off right away and getting out.

"Quit yanking yourself and let me have the bathroom, McKenna," Alex mutters through the door.

"Fuck you," Ben spits, forcing good nature into his voice. "You dream about me yanking myself, big boy."

"You wish. There'd better be some goddamned hot water left."

"Yeah, yeah." Ben makes mocking fish faces in the mirror as he towels himself off. He wraps it around his waist when he's done and heads out, brushing past Alex, who is grinning, on the way.

Ben considers himself pretty lucky; the self-proclaimed Unholy Trinity of Sutter Home is intact, and he has a decent life, for an eighteen-year-old, when he lets himself quit thinking about the past.

He decides he's going to play Bloodrayne all fucking day, till it's time to go to work.

* * * *

"Mocha, double chocolate."

Ben is blowing his hair out of his eyes, puffing air up with his bottom lip sticking out as he foams the milk for the order. He's waiting for the manager to get on him about his long bangs, but nothing has been said yet. He tosses his head back and adds the milk to two shots of espresso, then passes the cup to Maggie, the little brunette running the register.

"Double latte," she says over her shoulder, and Ben moves to get it. He foams more milk, tops the espresso, does his little trick with the cinnamon, and passes it to Maggie. They have a pretty decent system going.

"Ben?"

Ben's universe narrows to a queasy feeling in his stomach and a darkening of his vision as his face heats with an unavoidable flush. Adrenalin floods him. Everything slows to a crawl as that voice, that unmistakable voice, thick with surprise and sudden emotion and tiredness, filters through to him. He turns his head.

It is, of course, Jon Quenton.


	64. Chapter 64

Jon can hardly believe it. As he stares at the young man behind the counter -- the incredibly gorgeous young man he's missed every day since New Year's Day -- he can't help but remember the first time they talked. He made some facetious remark about Ben ending up working here, and now, here he is behind the counter, steaming milk with all the competence of a long time barrista.

"Ben?"

"Jon ... uh. Hi."

As Ben goes a bit red in the face and flubs the next order, Jon takes his latte and backs off. It feels like he's been away from Ben forever and he finds himself searching for some sort of difference in Ben's face, while at the same time reminding himself that it's only been a few months.

But there is a difference. Jon can't put his finger on it, but as Ben recovers and quickly makes up an ice-blended chai tea, Jon realizes that he looks older. Not hardened, but there is something more mature in his manner. It's actually quite appealing and Jon swallows.

The girl at the register is giving him a curious look, and Jon doesn't want to get Ben in trouble, so he moves over to he counter and speaks quietly. "I'd like to talk to you. Should I wait until you're off work? Or do you have a break coming up?"

Ben finishes the drink and wipes his hands on the towel hanging off his short apron. "I...." He looks at he floor and then at the girl behind the register. "Maggie, I'm gonna take my break now, OK?" She smiles at him and nods, and Ben strips off his apron as he comes out from behind the counter. "Thanks."

"You wanna go out there?" Jon nods toward the patio. "You can smoke."

Ben nods still looking at the floor, and Jon wonders if he should have let it go and not even tried to see him. He has no other way finding out what Ben's situation is; it's not as if he can ask anyone he used to work with. He's obscurely glad that flying makes him nervous, because it would hardly do to pop a Xanax right in front of Ben.

They reach the patio and Ben sits down, reaching for his cigarettes. Jon has no idea where to start and so he blurts out what first comes to mind. "I ... uh ... I've been in Juneau. With Beth and the family."

Ben finally glances up, his expression unreadable. He's shaken a cigarette out and now he lights it and takes a drag before answering. "Yeah? I've been in the Sutter Home for Boys." His voice is flat.

Jon closes his eyes briefly. While it could have been a lot worse -- Sutter is private and expensive and far, far better than anything the county or state can offer -- it's still awful. A wave of guilt washes over him and all he can manage is, "Oh fuck." He struggles to carry on the conversation in something approaching a normal tone of voice.

"What ... what happened .... that afternoon?" He takes a quick sip of his coffee more for something to do than because he wants it. This is excruciating and the urge to take Ben in his arms and just hold him is strong.

Ben takes a long drag, which is followed almost instantly with another. "I went to the ER. They called the police." Another almost angry drag and he's also fidgeting, playing with his light and bouncing his foot under the table. "I filed a report. The police also showed up at my house. *They* filed a report." He stares at the table and Jon gets the feeling Ben is seeing something other than the simple wooden table.

"I'm sorry," Jon says quietly. It's not enough, but then nothing he could say would be enough right now. All that's left is to try and explain. "I know it's not what you wanted me to do. I'm sorry that I couldn't say what you needed me to say."

Ben's head snaps up at that and he glares at Jon, his voice angry when he speaks. "What the fuck did you _think_ I wanted you to say that day? I don't even know why I called you. I just ... wanted...." He shakes his head and looks away.

Jon keeps his voice quiet, accepting the anger, knowing he deserves whatever vitriol Ben wants to aim at him. "You wanted me to fix things for you. You wanted me to tell you to come over to my house and that I would take care of everything." He looks down at his hands, curled around the paper coffee cup. "And I couldn't."

It takes Ben a long time to answer. "Maybe I did. Maybe I wasn't thinking. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, a gesture that brings back the old urge to brush the hair off his forehead. "So... yeah. Sutter Boys' Home. Dad fronted the cash, Mom got put away. I cleaned up." He shrugs and crushes his cigarette out. "Welcome to the world, Benjamin."

It hurts, all of it -- the weary voice, Ben's attempt at cynicism, just all of it. All Jon can do is offer up his own pain in the hopes that it helps in some way. He can't look at Ben as he speaks; he doesn't want Ben to think Jon blames him for any of this. "I ... had to retire. After 21 years. They ... didn't want problems. I could have fought it but ... they were afraid of things ... well they were afraid your mom would take them to court. I couldn't do that to either of us. So I ... accepted an early retirement."

Silence and Jon glances up to see Ben finally looking at him, his green eyes pained. "I'm ... I'm really sorry," Ben whispers.

"Don't be." Jon shakes his head. It's important for Ben not to blame himself for any of this; he's suffered enough. "I knew the risk when we ... started. I only wish ... I wish your mom hadn't ... well."

"Yeah," Ben sighs, looking away again. After a awkward moment, he adds absently, "Turned 18 the other day."

Jon can't help smiling as he looks up. "Yeah, I know. I tried to call you but the only number I felt was safe was the cell. When I heard it was disconnected...." He hesitates, not sure if he wants Ben to know how much he _needed_ to come down and see what had happened to Ben. "I called the airline."

"Why?"

"Because I had to know. I can't ask anyone about you; I've had no idea what happened to you. If I had any courage ... if I'd been able to haul my ass out of bed for more than a few hours at a time, I'd have done it a lot earlier." He can hear the self-disgust in his voice.

Ben says nothing, lighting up a new cigarette and smoking it for a while. "I... really missed you," he finally says very softly.

Jon tramples firmly on the flash of hope those words give him. "Yeah I ... I missed you too. " He puts on hand over his eyes. "I'm ... fuck, I'm so sorry Ben."

"There's... nothing to be sorry for, Jo," Ben replies, shaking his head. "I wish... I don't know what I wish for." He looks at Jon pleadingly. "I should probably wish we had never happened but I can't--I still love you."

All Jon can do is stare at Ben, stunned. How on earth can Ben still love him? Not that it matters of course; Jon knows what he has to say, even if it is surprisingly difficult to say it.

"Ben ... I'm ... all wrong. I'm not good for you. Look what happened. You ... need to get over me."


	65. Chapter 65

Ben pulls back from the table, staring. He absolutely refuses to acknowledge that Jon would even suggest Ben "get over" him, and moves onto the next point, his anger filtering through his hurt.

"Look at what _happened_?" he demands. "It happened because--I wasn't old enough, because of my mother--because we weren't careful enough. How could that _possibly_ happen again?" He shakes his head, staring, incredulous. He wants to have a third cigarette but he's already unpleasantly lightheaded with seeing Jon because of the way the conversation is going, and he's sure the nicotine would only make him shake more.

Jon's voice is quiet. He glances at his hands and shakes his head. "I ran away from you and stayed in bed for over two months, Ben." He takes a breath. There's something in his eyes that's deep and undefinable, as though he's been through something haunting. Ben can't believe, if Jon really missed him that way, if Jon really loved him, that he's hearing these words: "I can't be who you want me to be."

All Ben can do is shake his head again, never taking his eyes from Jon. Jon's hair is longer, and he's thin, and he looks tired. Ben never saw that haunted look before, but then again, until January, Jon still had a job. But God help him, Ben aches for Jon in a way he's never ached for anything before, and he wants to make that tired, heartbroken look go away.

In spite of the voice that tells Ben he needs to stop--it's becoming obvious Jon isn't interested in this any longer, and Ben's love is just going to have to die on the side of the road--he finally finds his voice again, "Then what--" He drops his voice. "What do you think I want? Why do you think I fell in love--" But it's just him talking, he realizes, and he knows he should have seen this coming. Understanding comes home--he's fucked up too badly for this--and he looks away. "No, never mind. I get it."

Jon does this absent dance with his hands, dully patting his pockets down for his Klonopin before he catches himself and leans onto the table a little.

"Get what?" he asks, as though he isn't quite processing what Ben's saying.

Draping his apron over his forearm, Ben gets up, speaking very softly. "If you didn't want anything...all you had to do was say so."

"It's not what I want--it's what's right for _you,_" Jon counters, waving his hand in dismissal of Ben's words.

Ben doesn't really know why he hasn't gone inside yet. The ache in his throat is threatening the sound of his voice, but he's too much in shock to have Jon right in front of him, denying him this way.

"What if what's right for me is you?" he asks, almost in a whisper.

He really can't believe what's coming out of Jon's mouth next. "Are you so sure of that?" Jon looks away. This is far harder than he thought it would be. "I'm...I'm no prize, Ben. Maybe when I had a job and could be fun and teach you things but...you don't really want me." Jon no longer knows, now, if he's trying to convince Ben, or himself.

Ben's anger peaks. "Why are you telling me what I want, Jon? Jesus--would that work for me? Can I dictate your feelings?" He leans down over the table, right into Jon's face, and dictates: "You want me. You know you do." He sees Jon's eyes flash guiltily, and that's when it hits Ben how close to the truth he is. "You didn't fly from fucking Alaska so you could check on my wellbeing and disappear again. I spent months believing you didn't give a shit, talking myself out of everything. And you did the same thing, didn't you?"

"I had to." Jon's voice has almost disappeared in on itself.

The anger drains away, and Ben is suddenly tired of convincing himself of things that aren't true. "Will you stop now? Will you please--please just believe that I love you and--I want to be with you? And I'm not blind, and I'm not stupid, and I'm not a fucking kid. I've made up my mind. If you...if you can't accept that--then don't try to pass it off as 'better for me.' I got enough of that at Sutter."

When Jon finally looks up, his eyes are shining with unshed tears. "Why? Why someone who's probably older than your dad?"

That makes Ben laugh. It is a thoroughly unpleasant sound right now. "You're asking me why I love you. Fuck..." He sits in the chair again and folds his arms on the table, and then drops his head to them. "Because it doesn't matter. Because I do, that's all. Give me a better reason." He can't stand it; Jon's self deprecation makes Ben want to grab Jon and shake him and yell, but if he did that, he'd throw himself into Jon's arms and kiss him, and God only knows what would happen then. Ben couldn't stand the humiliation.

Jon's voice shakes as he speaks again. "I...I meant it that night. I...should have said something on New Year's but...I was afraid. I'm so sorry."

Ben goes very still, as though if he moves now, he would frighten away Jon's words. "Don't be sorry," he says, into the table, his head still down. "Just love me _now._"

"I never stopped. I never will."

Ben's head comes up and he stares. He's terrified. If Jon walks away now, Ben won't have any reason to hope for him any more, and it would have been better if he'd never come. He doesn't want to ask, really--he's too afraid of the answer. He's too afraid of having to start all over again with this process of desperately turning his thoughts away from Jon. But he asks anyway, unable to keep himself from it.

"Then--will you--" He swallows hard. "Can I--see you?"

Jon bites his lip. "It's...it's complicated. But in the end, it's up to you."

 

"Jon, goddammit, it's up to _you_, too. Tell me what _you_ want." Ben looks away, then back again, and he knows even though he never takes a stand for himself, he has to do it now. He can't stand watching Jon beat himself over the head with _them,_ alternating between _I can't be what you want_ and _Whatever you want, Ben._ "I'm not chasing after you if it's not going to get us anywhere."

"I want you to be happy. I want you to have a life. If I'm part of that life, If I make you happy...that's what I want."

Ben gets up again. His chest aches with the end of everything he's mourned for for the past three months. All he's ever wanted in anyone is about to walk away, and Ben's going to let him.

"You--you can't just want what I want, Jon. It doesn't work like that, and you know it." He wants to expound on that, talk about how he knows that better than anyone. His world revolved around Jon, Jon was everything to him--his art, his sex drive, his laughter, his fear--and since then, he's had to learn he can't allow that kind of power to anyone. He can't have Jon as _everything_ anymore--but that Jon might choose not to be _anything_ to Ben is just too sharp a pain to consider right now.

He puts his apron over his head and ties it. There's one more shot here, and Jon probably won't take it, but Ben has to give it anyway. He pulls a small order notebook out of a pocket of the apron and scribbles his number on the sheet on top. "I've got to go back to work now. If you decide you want me in your life because _you_ do..." He puts the paper on the table in front of Jon, turns away, and heads inside. He doesn't know how he's going to finish his shift; he wishes they had a Zoloft you could stick under your tongue and suck on, something that would work right now and dull him past caring that Jon has made up his mind in the wrong direction.

But softly, quickly, Jon's voice cuts through the fog. "I want you in my life, Ben."

Ben stops almost at the door, waiting. His heart is slamming against his ribcage.

"When do you get off work? I'd like to take you out to dinner."

Ben turns around. He stares a moment. The relief, an almost alien feeling these days, is huge. It bursts onto his face in a great, huge grin. "Ten. I get off at ten."

Jon nods. "I'll see you then." Ben's smile...Jon is nearly overwhelmed by it after having spent such a long time being sure he'd never see it again.

They look at one another for what seems like a very long time before Ben's elation is almost too much to bear; he can't stop thinking of the things he wants to do right here, right now, and damn ten o'clock. But he finally turns away, still unable to stop grinning irrepressibly, and goes back to work.

For the first time in months, Jon smiles a smile that reaches his eyes.


	66. Chapter 66

Jon experiences a flutter of nervousness as he pulls into the fifteen-minute zone in front of Coffee Works. He didn't want their first meal out together to be like this; when he'd thought about it in the past, his mind had always suggested a fantastic brunch somewhere nice. Preferably after comfortable morning sex.

But it can't be helped, and already his mind is running through restaurant possibilities. Ten at night is late and most of the places he wants to take Ben to are already closed or closing. _Streets of London serves until eleven,_ he thinks and then realizes that it's a pub. Oh, not that they'd card Ben unless he tried to order something alcoholic, but still...

And then Ben is there, moving forward, opening the door, and sliding into the small car with the neat economy of movement Jon has missed so much. He's dressed in those ridiculously baggy jeans and an anarchy t-shirt, his hair is too long, and he smells of cigarettes and coffee.

"Hi."

Jon has to remind himself to breathe as he stares.

"God, you look good," Jon blurts. He can't help it; his hands reaches out tentatively to brush aside Ben's long sweep of bangs.

"So do you," Ben says, not moving away. In fact he's leaning in closer, his face a little hesitant as he does.

Jon responds, still feeling oddly tentative, and Ben smiles, closing the distance between them to place a soft kiss -- a mere brush of lips -- on Jon's mouth.

"Missed you," Jon murmurs against Ben's lips. "So much."

Ben whimpers a little and cups the side of Jon's neck, kissing him for real this time, mouth open and hungry. Jon leans in as well, responding with his own hunger, and now Ben is making those little noises in the back of his throat, the ones that have always driven Jon wild.

And then the noises Ben is making change, and Jon pulls back when he realizes Ben is crying. "Hey," he says softly, stroking Ben's face. "It's OK, Ben. It's OK." He tries to pull Ben close, but the little Fiat was not made for this sort of thing.

Ben blinks, the tears already fading. "Don't...." He pauses to clear his throat, his hand sliding up Jon's arm as if he's afraid to lose contact. "Don't leave me again ... please...."

Jon almost says, "Not unless you ask me to," but realizes that Ben won't want to hear that now. To be fair, it isn't really what Jon wants to say anyway, just what he _thinks_ he should say. "I won't."

"I missed you, Ben says, pulling back a little but still not letting go of Jon's arm. "I couldn't stand it ... couldn't stop thinking about you."

"Yeah me too, Jon replies, nodding. "I thought about you all the time. I tried not to, but...." He shrugs a little helplessly, and Ben nods, relaxing a little.

"So," Jon says, his mind turning to the practicalities of the moment. "Are you hungry? I think my housesitter's a vegan, so there's food there, but it's not much. There are a couple of good places still open this late on a weeknight, we could go to Tower, or maybe Hamburger Mary's, or...." He pauses because Ben is grinning at him, and there's something terribly irresistible about that grin. "Or we could go to the house and eat at Carrow's later."

Ben catches his breath as he nods eagerly. "The house. Let's go to the house."

"We could do that, sure," Jon replies, knowing Ben won't catch the reference and not caring. He glances at Ben. "Uh Ben? I can't drive stick with only one hand."

"Sorry," Ben says, still grinning. He's not at all sorry and Jon can see that as he settles for a quick caress of Ben's hand before he lets out the parking brake.

"We're gonna have to talk, you know," he says a moment later. "Seriously, I mean." He remembers that Ben used the past tense when talking about being at Sutter, and realizes he has no idea of Ben's situation now. "Um ... is anyone expecting you to be somewhere after work?"

"No." Ben shakes his head. "I mean, my roommates aren't gonna worry." He suddenly looks a little more serious and maybe even nervous, although it's hard to tell in the faint glow of the dash lights.

"Oh good," Jon replies, grateful that at least they don't have to worry about any schedule other than Ben's work schedule. He doesn't know how to respond to the nervousness, and so he reaches out quickly and brushes Ben's faces with his fingers before he has to shift.

"I'm not going to try to talk you out of this," he explains, as he makes the turn onto his street. "I'm sorry I did that earlier, it's just ... I want you to be happy. You deserve it."

Ben's reply is soft. "So do you." He looks away, his smile almost gentle. "I want to us make each other happy."

It's unexpectedly touching and Jon has to swallow before he replies. "I'd like that. A lot." He pulls up into his driveway and climbs out of the car, leading Ben to the front door and talking all the while.

"The housesitter -- Crystal -- kept it clean and I did laundry, but like I said there's not a lot of food I'd feel like eating, and she doesn't drink alcohol or sodas. I think there's some sort of weird ginger-flavored lemonade with echinacea in it and a few gluten-free cookies...."

Ben is grinning again as he follows Jon onto the porch. Once the door is closed behind them, he proves that he still remembers how to shut Jon up, all but slamming the larger man against the closed door and kissing him hard.


	67. Chapter 67

"God."

Ben stares around Jon's bedroom, stunned to be looking at it again, and he has a surreal, momentary flash of fear that he will wake up now, hand down his pajamas and crying into his pillow. He looks at Jon, who is grinning, misunderstanding the reason for Ben's shock.

"Yeah, I know," he shrugs a little, "I just hope it was all-natural, organic, fair-trade, small-farmer dope, because she sure smoked a lot of it." Before Ben can even process that, Jon is tugging the anarchy shirt off and dropping it on the floor.

Ben laughs suddenly for about six reasons; in spite of everything, it's like they were never separated. Ben still sees flashes of that haunted look. It's coming fewer and farther between, though, as though sometimes Jon thinks he must be dreaming, too, but that feeling is fading. No dream of Ben's has ever smelled so thick with organic fair-trade pot.

"That's not what I meant," Ben grins, "but... yeah." He laughs again and pulls Jon close, too in love with the feel of his mouth, too excited about tasting him again to bother worrying about waking up any more.

Jon's hands slide up and roam over Ben's back. "God, you feel good," he breathes, when he can stand to pull back from the hungry kisses.

"So do you," is all Ben can think to reply. He keeps wanting to say, over and over, how much he missed Jon, but he knows that's well and truly obvious by now. Those long, warm hands slide down the back of Ben's pants, into the waistband to cup Ben's ass, and it's just so good. So good to stand here and get kissed into complete senselessness, held close against Jon's body like this, clinging. Somehow, clothing starts to come off. Ben is desperate to manage this without breaking the groaning kisses, and Jon's working at it, too. It's a tangle of arms and legs and falling laundry until they're naked, and Jon is staring.

"You've been working out?" he asks, and he passes a hand over Ben's chest, no longer as slender as it used to be.

"Some," Ben murmurs, a little flushed, a little proud. "At Sutter." He thinks to tell Jon about all the extracurricular stuff they were made to do, things he hated, things like pitching hay for farmers and harvesting the early strawberries and riding horses, but now, those things aren't nearly so hateful with Jon looking at him like that.

"Looks good on you," Jon smiles a little, and then his eyes get a starved, startled look to them, and before Ben can even think about things like irony and the poetry of fate, Jon is dropping to his knees and tugging Ben close by the hips.

"Have to...now..." Jon gasps just before his mouth closes over Ben's cock completely.

Eyes wide and shocked, Ben sucks in a harsh breath and yelps Jon's name; his hands find Jon's hair. He is immediately groaning and shaking, immediately on the edge. Jon is sucking strongly, his tongue quick and firm. His hands tighten on Ben's ass, almost kneading. He manages three, maybe four passes over Ben's erection before Ben is crying out raggedly on nearly every breath. Ben shudders and lets out another hard yelp as climax slams through him, a real orgasm that begins both in the base of his spine and the bottom of his feet, not the weak, desperate one he gave himself a million years ago, this morning, whispering Jon's name. He doesn't even realize his hands have fisted themselves in Jon's hair, and Jon doesn't seem to care.

Jon stays with him, swallowing, and then when he pulls back, his mouth is still slick with Ben's come. "Want you..." He pulls a condom and lube out of a partially unpacked bag and moves with Ben to the bed. "Wanna see your face."

Ben lies down on his back, spreading his legs, opening his arms, impatient for the requisite condom application to be done, and then Jon is pushing fingers inside him steadily, one after another. Jon takes such great care, and Ben is nearly sobbing with the pleasure of it.

"Love you...love you," Jon is chanting breathlessly, staring down as he works his hand. The frenetic need is almost palpable on the air between them, but Jon is forcing himself to stay calm and careful.

"Love you--Jon, please, _please,_ now--" Ben's hips angle up of their own volition and he shudders as he tries to pull Jon down, closer, into him.

Jon's last reserve is breaking. "You sure--?" he barely manages. "Don't want to hurt you...ever again...." But he's pulling his hand away, trusting Ben, and oh, God, he wants it so badly...

Curling upward to kiss Jon hard, Ben arches again and moans, "You can't. Just--please--_now._"

"Oh, God." Jon moves into position and seems faintly amazed that he can hold it together long enough to get just inside Ben, let alone sheath himself completely. Ben's quick breathing and lost, desperate moans are nearly enough to push Jon right over. "Oh, yeah," Jon groans. "Oh, _fuck_ yeah."

All Ben can think is _more, harder, faster_ while he tugs at Jon's hips, shoving his own up harder.

Managing one last token, moaning protest about making it last, Jon gives up and starts fucking Ben the way they both need him to. The room is soon filled with the slap of skin on skin and the rasping, hungry noises that come of having been alone too long, and then they're both coming, Jon driving into Ben with starved finality, and Ben managing two strokes on his own cock before he follows along, crying out Jon's name.

Gasping, Jon stills, then rolls to one side, pulling Ben with him. He kisses Ben's face, over and over, cheeks, nose, eyelids, forehead, murmuring, "Love you...love you..."

Ben finally catches Jon's face and kisses him hard, as though they haven't just come hard enough to break the bed, and Ben twice.

"Love you," Ben whispers. "Always, Jon. Always."

And Jon looks at him happily, brushing that lock of hair off Ben's forehead. "Always," he sighs thoughtfully. "I like the sound of that."

"Good." Ben smiles and closes his eyes, hugging Jon tightly.

Jon, for his part, would be content to lie there with Ben in his arms all night, sticky, hot, and sated, but then his stomach growls. He laughs quietly and shakes his head. "Uh. Sorry about that. Too nervous to eat earlier."

Suddenly it strikes Ben that they have all the time in the world, now, to lie together and sleep, and he, like any young man, can always eat.

"Carrow's?" he smiles.

Jon grins widely. "Yeah." And then his eyes go semi-distant in that way that always heralds a rambling monologue. "Too bad their corned beef hash and eggs are so greasy," he begins, but then catches himself, a little embarrassed. "Uh, I try not to do that too much, but Xani always said it was like eating with a restaurant critic."

Ben swallows. "I don't care," he says softly.

Not noticing the sudden intensity in Ben's eyes, Jon shakes his head, laughing with that signature self-deprecation. "Stick around, and you probably will." But even knowing Ben may grow irritated with the same things Xani always did, Jon can't be shaken down from the sheer joy of thinking Ben just might stick around after all.


	68. Chapter 68

Jon's been awake for about twenty minutes or so. Quietly awake, propped up on one elbow watching Ben sleep. It's a sight he never thought to see again, and unlike the wild glee of last night, it fills him with a quiet contentment.

His stomach rumbles and he thinks of waking Ben up, but he can't just yet. They didn't go out to eat last night. Instead, Jon rummaged in his cupboards and came up some ramen to which he added some frozen broccoli. Ben laughed when Jon apologized for something so banal, but he was laughing with Jon, and so it was all good.

And now Ben is murmuring softly and blinking against the quiet morning light of the bedroom, and it's all more than good. Jon says nothing, choosing to bend and kiss Ben instead. Ben kisses him back eagerly, and Jon slides one hand down Ben's body and over his hip. Stroking Ben's cock as he comes up for air, he murmurs, "Mmmmm ... nice."

Ben's only answer is to gasp sharply as he angles his hips, moving his cock into Jon's hand. Jon smiles, and then bends to nip lightly at Ben's neck.

Ben arches again, moaning. "God ... missed you...."

"Missed you in the mornings," Jon mumbles against Ben's neck. "OK," he admits, still stroking Ben's cock, "all the damn time."

"All the time," Ben echoes. He's moving with Jon's rhythm now, and it's Jon's turn to moan when Ben's hand moves to tease at his nipples. He rolls then, moving them until Ben is lying on top of him, their erections hot against each other.

Ben starts to rock his hips, and Jon runs his hands over Ben's ass. It's real now, so very real, and he knows he's not going to wake up in Beth's guest bedroom with his own hand on his cock and an aching sense of loss.

"Want you," Ben moans, and Jon's not sure if he just wants this, or wants Jon to fuck him, or even if Ben wants to fuck Jon. Not that it matters; Jon's inclined to give Ben whatever he wants.

"I'm right here," he says, the words trailing off in a gasp as Ben thrusts against him yet again..

Ben moves off to get a condom from the drawer in the nightstand, and Jon shivers as Ben gently rolls the thin latex over his cock. Ben looks at the lube and then hands it to Jon, obviously feeling a little awkward at the idea of prepping himself.

That image -- Ben readying himself for sex like that -- stays with Jon as he slicks his fingers up and carefully works one into Ben. It's a terribly hot idea, but it'll happen when Ben is ready. Jon is content to wait.

"Not too sore from last night?" he asks.

Ben's low "No," as he rocks back onto Jon's hand is more a moan than an actual word, and Jon rushes it a bit, guiding Ben into place over him as quickly as he can.

"Oh yeah," he groans, watching that intense look on Ben's face as Ben takes him in. "Oh God that's good."

His face still serious, Ben nods shakily and reaches down with one hand to brush Jon's cheek. Unable to help himself, Jon turns his head and sucks two of Ben's fingers into his mouth, causing Ben to gasp loudly and move harder on Jon's cock.

Jon smiles wickedly around Ben's fingers and lavishes attention on them, working them as he would work Ben's cock. Ben is staring at him avidly and biting his lower lip in a way Jon never tires of seeing. When Ben's other hand moves unsteadily to stroke his cock, Jon realizes that this is yet another thing he'll never get tired of seeing, and he stares at Ben almost as if he's starving.

"Fuck ... Jon ... close," Ben manages to get out, his voice hoarse. He's moving hard on Jon's cock, and Jon is pretty close to the edge himself.

"Yeah," he mumbles around Ben's fingers, unwilling to let them slide from his mouth for even an instant. "Oh fuck yeah ... show me...."

Ben throws his head back when he comes, his body arched beautifully, his breath one long, ragged moan. Jon holds himself back to watch it all, and then, when Ben slumps over him, he thrusts into him hard several times before he finally comes.

It's so perfect and so good to slowly come back from an orgasm to Ben's mouth on his. "God," Ben whispers in between kisses. "Oh God...."

"I love you," Jon says, wrapping long arms around Ben and holding him close. Saying it is better than the sex, or watching Ben sleep, and Ben's happy sigh makes Jon vow to say it often.

"I love you too, Jon."

Jon stretches a little, aware of the way they're sticking together just a bit. He glances at the window, where the morning light is shining even stronger through the curtains.

_Ben doesn't have to go home,_ Jon thinks as he strokes Ben's back. _I don't have to make sure he has bus fare before he walks out the door. I don't have to spend the rest of the day worrying about what his mother might say when he gets home. _

He grins widely. "You want a shower and then breakfast? It's a gorgeous morning and I thought we could walk up to the 33rd Street Bistro.

"Yeah, that sounds great," Ben replies, tilting his head to look up at Jon.

_I could get used to this,_ Jon thinks as they finally leave the bed and head to the shower. _So easily...._


	69. Chapter 69

Ben lies comfortably on his side, watching Jon sleep. It's warm up here in the attic--it's more like a loft, really--but Ben is too excited to sleep. He watches the sun shine through the skylights, casting yellow beams through the dust motes.

They're dating now. They're officially _dating_. Breakfast was...God, it was so much more than just breakfast. Ben learned a lot there. He learned that challah is a good thing. He learned that there really is something to seven-dollar French toast. And salmon for breakfast. And the luxury of having a whole day stretching out in front of him with no one to account himself to. And walking in the sun with someone who was, not too long ago, forbidden to him--that is the best of all.

Jon told him he'd fantasized about something as simple as a meal shared in public for a long time. Just... _time_ together that wasn't furtive or rushed.

And now, lying here warm and sated, Ben thinks about the things Jon's told him. About how Randy's going to be here, Jon's niece Randy. About how she's spending the summer until Jon can get her situated at El Dorado with a swim coach who can challenge her.

About how Jon said it would be different, but Randy's parents know that Jon isn't going to put his life on hold anymore.

So Ben and Jon are dating.

Jon bought Ben's breakfast. They traded bites at a table by a window in public. It's still making Ben smile.

But not as much as what Jon gave him for his birthday.

"Xani had this thing about wanting space to work in. Lighting, you know, and quiet. He was very adamant about it. Did you know this door was here? Look." And he opened a door Ben really hadn't known was there at all and led Ben through it, up stairs--and here.

"He used to work up here. He'd set his tripod up right here and get his models to lie down there--" He pointed to this bed, right here. This little pallet they're on right now. Jon went on for a little while, explaining how Xani had everything set up, where the best lighting is at various times of the day, how Xani loved this place because he never had to filter for light, he'd just wait a little while until the sun moved.

Ben listened, nodding, just liking the sound of Jon rambling happily on, until Jon turned to him, right in the middle of the floor, and said, "Happy birthday, Ben."

Stunned, Ben looked around. "What--you're--_this_?" For a split second, he thought it sounded ungrateful or doubtful, but the look in Jon's eyes when he stepped closer reassured Ben immediately.

"I want you to have a place to come to," Jon murmured, cupping the side of Ben's face in one large hand while the other brushed his hair back off of his forehead. "To draw. Or paint. Whatever." And he pointed to a trunk. In the trunk were art supplies.

Now Ben looks at Jon, large and warm, sprawled out comfortably in a sunbeam like a great big cat. There's a sheet barely covering Jon's hips and a bite mark on his shoulder; Ben has a dark bruise on the side of his neck, too. He shifts a little, smiling faintly at the ache he missed so much.

Lying here in the sun with Jon is rich and simple, both. To celebrate, he moves carefully off the bed to the trunk and pulls out a soft lead pencil and a drawing pad. He starts off sketching Jon, but it ends up being Djinn and the boy, whose name no longer matters so much. They're standing on their hill, looking into the sunset. In the distance is another city, like nothing Ben has ever drawn them in before. And just overhead is the faintest sketch of a face. A ghost. Smiling.

_-end-_

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, this was written as a The Phantom Menace AU, but you can also read it as a Liam Neeson/Ewan McGregor RPF AU or even as original fiction if you prefer.


End file.
